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POEMS 




WALTER J. DOHEKTY 



POEMS 



By 

WALTER J. DOHERTY 




1912 



Ts 3 soy 



Copyright, 1911, by Walter J. Doherty 
Copyright, 1912, by Walter J. Doherty 



gCI.A309518 



DEDICATION 

I dedicate these poems to the memory of my 
beloved daughter, Mrs. Mary Cecilia Gaudin, 
whose spirit guided and whose death prompted 
me in their composition and completion. 

She lived an innocent and happy life, and 
departed this world at the joyful moment of 
motherhood. The various poems on death, and 
" The Vacant Home," were written from impres- 
sions of her memory. 

The two poems on the " Baby " refer to her 
baby, which was left to be in part a consolation 
for her transformation from this world to her 
eternal home. Thank God. 

Walter J. Doherty. 



In hours of pleasure and of pain, 

Those thoughts ran quickly through my brain. 



CONTENTS 

PAQB 

The Poet's Wail 11 

Dedicated to the Memory of Mrs. John R. Gaudin 

(Photo) 13 

The Vacant Home 14 

The Baby 15 

The Baby 16 

What a Year Brings Around 17 

Death 19 

Must Die 20 

All Must Die 22 

The Spirit Land 24 

Blessed are the Dead 25 

Death is Calling 27 

The Morning Sky 29 

The Gloom of Death 80 

The Other World 31 

The Silent City 32 

The Hermit 34 

The Priest 36 

Letter to Rev. J. M. Byrne 38 

The Eternal City 41 

Love of Nature 44 

Nature 47 

The Honey Bee 50 

The Bird of Passage 51 

The Morning Sun 53 

The Beautiful Moon 55 

Down on the Farm 55 

The River 57 

Flow and Ebb 60 



An Answer to an Inquiry Concerning The Maid 

of the Mist 61 

Texas Thirty Years Ago 62 

Texas is Good Enough for Me 63 

Texas Best 64 

The Prairie Schooner 65 

Manitou, Colo 67 

The Glowing West 69 

The Blue and the Gray , 70 

The Stars and Stripes and Stars and Bars 71 

The Gentleman 73 

The Man of Renown 75 

Elegy on Woman 78 

Blonde or Brunette 80 

The Haunted House 81 

The American Boy 82 

The Yankee Girl 84 

The German School Boy 87 

Childhood Days 88 

My Boy 89 

The Love-Sick Swain 90 

Love's Rambles 91 

A Toast 92 

Man and Maid 93 

The Lady with Husbands to Burn 95 

Epitaph on G. Cullop 96 

The Cold Frozen North 97 

The Sunny South 99 

No Rain 101 

Killarney 102 

My Country 104 

Christmas is Gone, No. 1 106 

Christmas is Gone, No. 2 108 

Pallasdale 109 

Letter to Mrs. F. C. Haynes 110 

Letter to Mrs. C. L. Clark 113 

Letter to Mr. Wallace Graves 115 

Poets are all Dead 117 



Home and Fireside 118 

The City 119 

Alone in the Crowd 121 

Wanting, Wishing 122 

Mournful Thoughts 124 

Past Memories 125 

The Captive Bird 127 

The Flag of Our Country 129 

The Innocent Babe 131 

The Nun 133 

How Little We Know 135 

The Dying Monk 136 

The Sonnet on Spring 137 

Letter to Mrs. Rosemae Clark 138 

The Blessed Rain 141 

Delaware's Model Farm 142 

The Boy and His Dog 145 

The Broken Vow 147 

For What They Were Intended 149 

The World So Old, and Yet So New 150 

The Clouds O'er Our Lefe 152 

But a Dream 153 

Rich and Poor 158 

Poor and Old 160 

Time 162 

Eternity 163 

Blessed Be Our God 165 

A Prayer 166 



THE POET'S WAIL 

We should always remember, as all have agreed, 
That poets, like prophets, are not well received 
In their own country, or in their own town, 
But they should not feel grieved, as they are men 
of renown, 

That they are rejected by those that they know, 
For it must be expected, as it has always been so ; 
As Homer, the scholar, who portrayed the Greeks, 
In hunger and squalidity walked through the 
streets. 

No one recognized him when begging for bread, 
But all lionized him when they knew he was dead. 
We heard of poor scholars who since gained 

renown, 
Who walked cold and hungry through the streets 

of the town. 

It was nobody's business, and nobody cared, 

For it was none of their troubles how others had 

fared ; 

But it has ever been so, although it seems hard, 

That those most deserving should get least reward. 

11 



The prophets of old were ahead of their time, 
And those whom they preached to thought it a 

crime 
That they be reproved, — they were so puffed up 

with pride, — 
So they could not endure them and cast them aside. 

They cast them aside to their own loss and ruin, 
Which proved in the end to be their undoing; 
But geniuses, like patriots, look not for power, 
Although at the world they may sometimes feel 
sour. 

They give their best efforts for country and home, 
And never forget them when writing a poem ; 
They write up their praises and make it appear, 
That those who may sing them they cannot but 
cheer. 

Their writings are criticized by those who lack 

lore, 
Who would make corrections on them by the score, 
But such things are expected, as they ever have 

been, 
As this life is a warfare and each place is the 

scene. 



12 




MRS. JOHN R. GAID1N 



DEDICATED TO MRS. JOHN R. GAUDIN 

She came into our home one day, 

A babe, from heaven sent 
To cheer us on our weary way 

And make our lives content — 

A babe with bright and shining eyes, 

Blue as the heavens above, 
To where her soul has taken flight, 

Where all is peace and love. 

To us she was a guiding star, 

Her life was always bright, 
But since she's gone our eyes are dim, 

For day has turned to night. 

She was too good to stay on earth, 
To frail to stand its storms ; 

While here she filled our home with mirth, 
She's now in God's own arms. 

We miss her bright and happy face, 
Which from our home was led; 

She spent her life in God's good grace — 
And now that babe is dead. 

But, though she is now dead to us, 

Some day the dead will rise; 
And while to us she is a loss, 
To heaven she's a prize. 

Hee Fathee. 
13 



THE VACANT HOME 

The vacant home, — where once there dwelt 
A child of beauty in face and form, 

Whose every wish expressed was law, 

And loved ones shielded her from harm. 

Those empty halls, — where once was heard 
The tread of footsteps light and buoyant, 

Where laughter rang from hall to hall — 
Those echoes now are dead and silent. 

Those empty rooms, — oh, childhood's charms, 
Endeared to thought and memory's dreams 

Of when we clasped them in our arms — 
It's now a century — so it seems. 

The vacant home no hand can paint, 

Its loneliness is most depressing, 
And all our time seems but a waste, 

Our life is spent in vain regretting. 

The vacant house, — whose echoing halls 
Resound with hollow sounds, so empty, 

There is no friendly face at all, 

Where once was beauty, love, and plenty. 

The vacant home, — if that were all, 

We'd stand its gloom, though most depressing, 
But in our hearts, — those empty halls, — 

It's there the pain is most distressing. 

14 



THE BABY 

The baby dear, what shall we call her? 

She's sweet as the honey of bees ; 
One smile from her round face I'd rather, 

For which I'd go down on my knees. 

The baby, that dear little angel, 
My love for her never shall cease ; 

Now she is looking right over her cradle, 
While we bend gently down on our knees. 

Those bright eyes that seem to be calling, 
Bright and blue as the skies overhead; 

We hope that she soon will be crawling, 
But now she lies still there in bed. 

The poor little dear, when she entered 
This world with all of its cares; 

Then left her whose heart in her centred, 
And whose image and likeness she bears. 

The poor little dear, she's a darling, 
Her mother was taken at birth; 

And now she doesn't hear her sweet calling; 
If here she would join in her mirth. 

The Good Lord, who loves little babies, 
And said He'd take them for His own, — 

To His care we'll entrust her safe-keeping, 
Her body as well as her soul. 

15 



THE BABY 

The baby dear with golden hair, 
Who knoweth neither trouble nor care; 
With curly locks that circle round, 
And dainty feet that pat the ground. 

Those dark blue eyes that sparkle so, 
And follow after as we go; 
That forehead high, and parted hair, — 
Sweet visions haunt me everywhere. 

Those dear words she cannot express, 
But she has such a sweet caress ; 
That look of peace and innocence, 
Which only once shall be possessed. 

No wonder God had said of them, 
They were the ones for His kingdom ; 
Those sparkling eyes, that seem to speak, 
And pattering feet that run to meet. 

And laugh that rings so in our ear, 
Which makes sweet music everywhere; 
They are the pride of mother's heart, 
And from them they can never part. 

The heart of man it softens so, 
When he sees the baby's face aglow; 
Aglow with merriment and health, 
Which is worth more to him than wealth. 

16 



She pleads so with those loving eyes, 
Which only parents realize ; 
And so he heaves a loving sigh, 
And he sings the babe a lullaby. 



WHAT A YEAR BRINGS AROUND 

I've lost all I had, what care I now? 
My heart is sad, my spirits low; 
My daughter fair has gone to rest, 
She was the one I loved the best. 

Her tender care and easy grace, 
Depicted beauty of her face; 
She's gone away, no more we see 
Those happy days that used to be. 

No more we see her pleasant smile, 
She used to wear it all the while; 
Hers was a loss can't be replaced, 
But she has reached a better place. 

She was a sweet and loving child, 
The ones that are taken are that kind; 
She made our home a place of joy, 
But now she's gone to God on high. 

17 



One year ago how happy she 
Was in her home so full of glee ; 
Her form is missed, that voice is still — 
Although we know it is God's will. 

She ever did dispel all gloom, 

And scattered sunshine through each room; 

For joy to others she had given, 

For which she's got a place in heaven. 

One year ago to-day she bought 
Our Christmas gifts ; we little thought 
That ere this Christmas should come around, 
She would be placed beneath the ground. 

With all her pleasures, hopes and joys 
She never lived to realize; 
And thus our hopes in life are gone, 
Which leaves our future blank and wan. 

The world moves now as it did then, 
Although with us it's standing still; 
No wonder that our hopes are blighted, 
And all our future life benighted. 



18 



" DEATH " 

Who would not fear its mighty grasp, 
That comes like dead of night, 

And takes away our life's last gasp, 
And fills us with affright. 

Amidst the gloom of life's last hour, 
When our time to leave has come, 

Then we're deprived of all our power, 
We're then both deaf and dumb. 

It's then the light has left our life, 
With sweat beads on our brow, 

And thus we leave this world of light, 
Although we know not how. 

The men who live in might and power, 
With armies all their own, 

Then when it comes, that lonely hour, 
They must leave here all alone. 

It seems to live here is a crime, 
And for it we must suffer, 

It's thus the Lord awaits His time, 
For He has thought it proper. 

The sins of Adam and of Eve, 
To which we've not consented, 

But still the guilt to us they leave, 
Although they've since repented. 
19 



For we are all condemned to die, 

As punishment for sin — 
So said the Lord that rules on high, 

But it's then our lives begin. 

For God, who knows how to reward, 

As well as to chastise, 
And those who here obey His laws 

To glory in heaven they'll rise. 



" MUST DIE " 

Why should we fear to die, 
When all nature tells us so? 

For all on earth must suffer death, 
Whether they like it or no. 

The field and dale with blossoms wild, 

So pleasing to the eye, 
Where we have many hours beguiled, 

But yet they all must die. 

The great and mighty, good and bad, 
The handsome, bright and gay, 

Must all prepare to meet their God, 
Which may be any day. 
20 



For death it seems is but a sleep, 

When we're laid to rest, 
And when we're gone no one should weep, 

For it is sometimes best. 

The stars that light the sky by night, 
And the sun that shines by day, 

Though they all do their work aright, 
They too must pass away. 

And when the earth and heaven pass, 

And time shall be no more, 
They, like ourselves, shall be rebuilt, 

And then shall die no more. 

Why should we fear to die? 

We're told that death is sweet, 
And many a friend for whom we sigh 

We once again shall meet. 

How could we see the angel's face, 

How could we see our God, 
If we were on this earth to stay, 

Mixed up with good and bad? 

The fallen angels they were made 

Pure spirits bright and free, 

But if they could they too would die, 

For happy would they be. 
21 



For God has so ordained, it seems, 
All earthly things must die, 

And He has used death as a means 
This world to purify. 



ALL MUST DIE 

Why should we mourn for the dead? 

The Lord but claimed His own ; 
And took her to the realms above, 

To His eternal home. 

Why should we mourn for the dead? 

For still her spirit lives ; 
And God alone has got the right 

To take the life He gives. 

Why should we mourn for the dead? 

Should not God's will be done, 
Who gaveth up even unto death 

His own beloved Son ! 

Why should we mourn for the dead? 

For that our life was given, 
And only through it shall we find 

The only road to Heaven. 

22 



Why should we mourn for the dead? 

They are only gone before, 
To take their place with God in Heaven 

And meet us at the door. 

For through that great chasm of death 

We enter through the gate, 
And they are taken up ahead 

W T hile we stay here and wait. 

For of the old Biblical days 

All men are dead but two, 
And they will come again on earth, 

For they have work to do. 

And when that work of theirs is done, 
They shall lay down their lives, 

For God is keeping them in Heaven 
To fight the Anti-Christ. 

Then when their mission here is filled, 
They're slain upon the street : 

When of this world there is an end 
Our own in Heaven we'll meet. 



23 



THE SPIRIT LAND 

Oh ! take me to the Spirit Land, 

It is my future home, 
For I'm a stranger in this land, 

Wherever I may roam. 

The Spirit Land seems distant 
But still it's close at hand, 

For all the world about us 
Comprise the Spirit Land. 

For in this mighty world, 
Our lives are but a speck, 

Although we make a nutter 
While here upon its deck. 

The spirits move about us, 
And go like lightning's flash, 

And listen to our theories 

Tho' sometimes they are rash. 

Oh ! take me to the Spirit Land, 
I've oft been there in thought, 

And while still there I found it grand, 
Tho' my visit came to naught. 

We long to see the Spirit Land, 
Where angels come and go, 

But we are held here by life's bands, 
How long we do not know. 

24 



I like to think of Spirit Land, 
Of dear ones gone ahead, 

They go to swell the mighty band, 
While we here call them dead. 

Oh ! take me to the Spirit Land, 
It's there I want to stay 

And leave behind me all I have, 
This body made of clay. 

And when the resurrection comes, 
This body, gone to dust, 

Will mingle with the spirits, 
For God has said it must. 

So in this mystic world, 

We're here but a short while, 

Then we are taken to another 
For which we're here on trial. 



BLESSED ARE THE DEAD 

Blessed are they who die in the Lord, 
For so it has been written, 

And great indeed is their reward, 
No more shall they be smitten. 

25 



Happy they who die in Spring, 

Before the cares of life 
Troubles and sorrow to them shall bring, 

Let them be husband or wife. 

We see the bright and happy face, 

Of portrait on the wall, 
Which shows she lived in God's good grace, 

Like man before his fall. 

Happy the souls in God's good time, 

He called from here below, 
Ere aught they knew of care or crime, 

His blessings did bestow. 

For youth is like the month of May, 

When nature all is dressed, 
And all the world is bright and gay, 

While we're here but a guest. 

The fair and finest of the flock, 

God would have sacrificed, 
Why therefore should we want them back, 

When they are His own choice? 

Blessed are they who die in the Lord, 

In the Holy Book we are told; 

And blessed are they who pass away, 

Before they have grown old. 

26 



DEATH IS CALLING 

Death is calling ever, 

Calling at our door, 
For with each one in this world, 

It must settle that old score. 

It waits till we are born, 
To watch our cradle bed, 

And all this time it has one care, 
It waits till we are dead. 

It follows us in childhood, 
It's with us at our play, 

And never seems to leave us, 
Neither night nor day. 

It seems to have a fancy, 
It likes to linger around, 

And where we least expect it, 
It's there that Death is found. 

Amidst our gay rejoicing, 
Upon the ball-room floor, 

Where life is all a glitter, 
It's waiting at the door. 

It's waiting to enfold us, 

Within its withering hold, 
It has no respect of persons, 

For Death is always bold. 

27 



It comes in stormy weather, 
Amidst the wind and rain, 

Which gives the farmer pleasure, 
But Death, it brings but pain. 

It lingers on the ocean, 
It hides among the rocks, 

And where we seek protection, 
It's there it makes a corpse. 

It follows each excursion, 

Upon the river boat, 
And seeks for its destruction ; 

It's there that Death doth gloat. 

It watches around the palace, 
Beneath the doctor's care, 

And takes a king or princess, 
Without the least of fear. 

It never seems to slumber, 
Nor does it care for rest, 

But always can remember 
The one that's wanted next. 

Though we be strong and healthy, 
And it seems nowhere around, 

We know that Death is stealthy, 
And then is often found. 

28 



For Death has come here with us, 
And follows everywhere, 

And when we start to leave here, 
We'll surely find Death there. 



THE MORNING SKY 

Look at the morning sky, 
How beautiful and grand, 

How pleasing to the eye 
As it spreads o'er the land. 

Note its various hues 

Of purple, pink and red, 
Mingled with gray and blue 

As it spreads overhead. 

See its floating clouds 

Scarce moving through the space, 
As if they feared to wake 

The slumbering human race. 

Thus enters gentle day, 

As soft as opening flowers, 

That know not the sun's rays 
Within some shady bowers. 
29 



THE GLOOM OF DEATH 

The gloom of death 
Hangs round me yet, 
And ever will, I fear; 
And though it's gone, 
It leaves a pang, 
As much as I can bear. 

The gloom of death, 
It brings regret, 
And leaves behind it care; 
And though it's met 
With our last breath, 
We cannot banish fear. 

The gloom of death, 
Who would not fret, 
To know it is so near? 
But ne'ertheless, 
But few will miss, 
And others will not care. 

For when we're gone, 
Which won't be long, 
Then others take our place; 
Then after that, 
We know not what 
Will happen with our race. 
30 



THE OTHER WORLD 

The other world, we hear it spoken 

As if it lay just across the seas; 
Each one to reach it leaves some heart broken, 

Who follows them there by slow degrees. 

The other world, whose shores are boundless, 
And mortals fear therein to peep ; 

If we keep the right path those fears are 
groundless, 
For there our souls are to rest in peace. 

The other world we hear so much of, 
And know not when we're called to go ; 

Each day we're nearer to our last parting, 
And our own reason must tell us so. 

That other world, for us to reach it, 
They lay us down beneath the sod ; 

For so we find they all do teach it, 

For all must go there, both good and bad. 

If we reach Heaven, for so we're hoping, 
It's there we'll have our heart's delight; 

Then all our pains here will seem a blessing; 
They only go there who do what's right. 

31 



The other world should not be empty, 
For millions go there from this side; 

It seems some day they will have plenty, 
For it's there in future all must reside. 

The vault of heaven here surrounds us, 
And reaches up beyond our sight; 

When we go yonder, no land shall bound us, 
For there they'll have no day nor night. 

In this wide world with its broad expanse, 

Where we poor mortals dwell; 
While living here we have a chance, 

Oh! shall it be Heaven, or hell? 



THE SILENT CITY 

The Silent City, where warriors bold 

Are resting now in silent sleep, 
And maidens fair, with hair of gold, 

Rest sweetly where the willows weep- 
Through the long and silent hours of night 

They need no guard to watch their tomb ; 
They're shut away from human sight, 

They rest amidst that awful gloom. 

32 



Upon the trees whose spreading limbs 
Throw shadows o'er bodies moulding, 

The lone dove coos and the wild bird sings ; 
And the wondering mind has a strange fore- 
boding, 

When the chilly breeze of autumn's blast 

Blows through the trees with its dismal sound, 

And leaves that flourished through the summer 
past 
Are thickly strewn upon the ground. 

Beneath yon dome there lies a man 
Who while on earth his will was law, 

There is no one now beneath his ban 
Nor for his wishes cares a straw. 

Within the portals of those silent walls 

Where many dear and sacred treasures sleep, 

They answer not our sad and piteous calls 

Whose graves we water with the tears we weep. 

Behold that grassy mound incased with granite 
stone, 
Upon one corner stands a slender oak, 
Whose leafy branches shade the silent tomb 

Of children for whose death my heart nigh 
broke. 

33 



And as I cast my glance from lot to lot, 
I see my silent friends lie all around, 

From the white-haired sage to the smallest tot; 
I feel a reverence for that sacred ground. 

There through the long bright moonlit night, 
Where towering pillars cast their shadows deep, 

So were the shadows cast upon our life, 

By death of those who now beneath them sleep. 

And when it comes, the time that I must die, 
I want to lie beneath those shady leaves, 

So all my friends that come and wander by, 
May know he is with those for whom he grieves. 



THE HERMIT 

Shall I fly, shall I fly, shall I fly to the gloom, 

And hie me away as it were to> the tomb, 

To the hot desert land where no trees e'er are 

found, 
And nothing but sand spread all over the ground? 

In the far distant land where the anchorite lone, 
Lived in fasting and prayer for the good of the 

soul, 
And communed with his God in the dark hours of 

night, 
There hidden away from out of man's sight, 

34 



With no creature at all, but a raven for one, 
That brought half a loaf scarce as big as a bun ; 
Shall I fly to the desert, there close to a spring, 
With naught but a date-palm, scant shade to 
rest in? 

And flee from life's follies, which here so abound, 
And bury myself as it were underground. 
There's where thousands have gone, have gone 

there to live, 
And renounced all the joys which this world could 

give. 

Midst the terrors of reptiles with death in their 

sting, 
And never a house to hide themselves in, 
To lead such a life must be superhuman ; 
While others have done it, there are still some that 

can. 

There Dukes, Lords, and Princesses, from purple 

and gold, 
Have gone in their youth, and died there when old, 
And thought it a favor that they were allowed 
To bury themselves as it were overground. 

There hid in the desert, no human they knew, 
And if one approached them in farther they flew, 
They flew from all pleasures, from all earthly gain, 
But still had their bodies, which they had to tame. 

35 



They hid in the desert from the pleasures of life, 
But still had their warfare, their ne'er-ending 

strife, 
For fight is man's portion wher'er he may go, 
He must fight his own flesh, which is his worst foe. 



*o 



Shall I fly to the desert, ah ! no, I'll remain, 
Remain where I am, for life's ever the same ; 
I'll not fly to the desert, as I can't go alone, 
But must take this my body, which would still 
fight the soul. 



THE PRIEST 

The Catholic Priest takes care of his flock, 
And proves like to Peter, he still is a rock, 
A rock to which we in our troubles can fly, 
And upon whose advice we can always rely. 
He is without family, without home or friends, 
But the sick and the dying he always attends ; 
He is weak with the weak, and strong with the 

strong, 
He exhorts all to right, and discourages wrong. 

You'll find him in danger, midst contagious disease, 
While others called preachers are home at their 
ease; 

36 



He follows the footsteps his Master hath trod, 
And preaches alike to the good and the bad; 
He seeks to make converts wherever he goes, 
And to gather the harvest from the seed that he 

sows; 
He is like the good shepherd that sees to his flock, 
And when one goes astray he rests not till he's 

back. 

He bears persecution like the Saviour before, 
And thinks he's unworthy to bear any more, 
He seeks not for glory, nor applause of mankind, 
As all of those bubbles we must soon leave behind ; 
Upon the high Alps which are covered with snow, 
When the traveller is lost, and knows not where 

to go, 
You'll find there at hand a St. Bernard good priest, 
To take him to shelter at that blessed retreat. 

On the high mountain top they watch for the 

astray 
And benighted traveller that's lost on the way ; 
Forever he's watchful to succor mankind, 
And relieve wants of body as well as of mind. 
Where bullets are thick on the field of the slain, 
Which makes the heart sick, and bewilders the 

brain, 
You'll find the priest there to give hope and relief 
To the wounded and bleeding there dying in grief. 

37 



He gives up home and riches, to work for the Lord, 
And looks but to Heaven to get his reward; 
Though once he may've been the pride of his set, 
Those honors and pleasures he now doth forget, 
Forget and abandon for fasting and prayer, 
And gives to the people his principal care. 
While the rich they but try to increase earthly 

store, 
The priests they acquire so they can give the more. 

He is ready to lay down his life at his work, 
As he preaches to Arab, Caucasian, or Turk, 
He feels not the sadness of the world around, 
As he knows that in Heaven he yet will be crowned ; 
Forever in Heaven he'll shine like a star, 
Which now by his faith he can see from afar, 
And longs for the time that those bands be untied, 
Which will lift up his soul to where God doth abide. 



Ft. Worth, Texas, 2/2/'ll. 

Rev. J. M. Byrne, All Saints' Church, 
N. Ft. Worth, Texas. 

My dear Father Byrne, I write these few lines, 
To explain to you what was intended, 
Those Priests that have fallen at different times, 
Their mission with Christ, it has ended. 

38 



You refer to the faithless and fallen of old, 
Such as Judas Iscariot and Luther, 
And all that makes havoc in God's holy fold, 
In the past time, the present, and future. 

On my subject I wrote on the Priests of to-day, 

And referred not at all to the fallen, 

For they from my memory have long passed 

away, 
As such traitors should all be forgotten. 

But we know that the Priest is but man after all, 
And subject to all his temptation, 
And therefore he always is subject to fall, 
But if so, he must seek restoration. 

But some, like the angels cast out of God's 
sight, 

That were filled both with pride and presump- 
tion, 

Had risen so high up in their own sight, 

That to others they paid no attention. 

For pride is proverbial and comes before fall, 
It's the snare by which great minds are taken, 
And is o'er their eyes, as it were, like a veil, 
And thus they are easily mistaken. 

39 



For man while on earth must fight to the last, 

And never lie down to the battle, 

For when proven a coward all good deeds of the 

past 
Are then by his country forgotten. 

When Benedict Arnold had fought in the ranks, 

And fell in defense of Old Glory, 

If death then but claimed him, he'd not have a 

chance 
To sell country and turn a Tory. 

The zest of it all is those faithful and true, 
Who are called by God to that vocation, 
Although by foreknowledge He already knew 
Those who would be true to His mission. 

There is no one on earth can compare with the 

Priest, 
In his sacerdotal and religious profession, 
And when we're possessed of the good ones we're 

blessed, 
From the bad, we should learn a lesson. 

W. J. Doherty, Ft. Worth, Texas. 



40 



THE ETERNAL CITY 

Upon the pagan stronghold, 
Where Satan reigned for years, 
Ere Christians got a foothold, 
Its people lay in chains ; 
For he was so defiant 
Of all the powers of man, 
And acted such a tyrant, 
As only Satan can. 

He erected there a citadel, 
With battlements so strong, 
Where he defied the world, 
And would his stay prolong. 
But the meek and humble Peter, 
That was chosen by the Lord, 
From among His favored people, 
His faithful herd to guard, 
Took in the situation, 
And with the eye of faith, 
He buckled on his armor, 
And charged the mighty gate. 

His weapons they seemed feeble, 

But then his faith was strong, 

And he felt he was able 

To conquer before long. 

His weapons they were fasting, 

41 



Which mingled in with prayer, 
He made impressions lasting, 
And conquered everywhere. 

He had turned from Jerusalem, 
As God had said he would, 
And sowed among strange people 
The seed that rooted good. 
The Church it was established, 
And was growing fast and strong, 
But never had been watered, 
By the blood of martyred man ; 
But then there came an era 
Which was to prove its strength, 
For Satan with his agents 
Was on its destruction bent. 

First came the cruel Nero, 
Proud Emperor of Rome, 
Who thought it a usurper, 
And feared they'd get his throne. 
He was a wicked demon, 
Although in shape a man, 
Who would kill all the world, 
If a head they had but one. 

After such signal failure, 
Which Nero he had been, 
Then came up Diocletian, 



The worst the world had seen. 

He then ruled all the nations, 

Himself and Maximilian, 

They then attacked the Christians, 

And said they'd leave not one 

In all that mighty empire, 

So killed them off for fun, 

They would annihilate them, 

And leave no trace at all. 

But they were much mistaken, 

And they strengthened after all. 

The Church had a foundation, 
Cemented with man's blood, 
With lives of martyrs taken, 
And on that foundation stood. 
So all his futile efforts 
They soon had come to naught, 
And he did not accomplish 
The ends that he had sought. 
In all, eleven millions 
Did freely give life's blood, 
And though it had been billions, 
They would the loss have stood. 
Thus from a small beginning 
They have spread the whole world o'er, 
And long before the ending, 
They will have spread much more. 

43 



Though they were weak and feeble, 
With God to guide their ways 
They have brought the faith through peril, 
Down to the present days. 

So stands the Eternal City, 
At present it is Rome, 
But if the Church so will it 
They can make another home. 
For it is not the city 
That makes the Church of God, 
But Bishops, Priests, and laity, 
Which comprise that mighty band. 
So banded all together, 
They will fight until the last, 
And win in Heaven a treasure, 
When this life of strife is past. 



LOVE OF NATURE 

I love all nature so, 
All of it that I know, 
I love the mountains, 
Valleys, lakes, and fields, 
And o'er my heart a longing steals, 
For I love them as I used to long ago. 
44 



I love the mountain tops, 
With their rugged snow-white caps, 
Where the climbers love 
To travel heel and toe, 
And the guide oft goes astray, 
As he does not know the way. 
There I'd love to spend 
My days if I could go. 
I love the wooded hills 
Where the black-bird sits and sings, 
And the wood-thrush 
On the tree-top sits alone; 
There I now would like to be, 
Sitting down beneath that tree, 
And I'd love to hear 
The ring-dove make his moan. 
I love the meadows green, 
Where in childhood I have been. 
For its loss 

No other place can atone, 
There amidst the wild flowers free, 
When my heart was full of glee, 
There my memory 
Ever lingers, round that home. 
I love the waters fresh, 
Where they come down with a rush, 
To the valley, 

From their lovely mountain home. 
45 



There the rivulets abound, 

Where the speckled trout are found, 

And the children play around 

As of yore. 

I love the fields so green, 

And my heart dwells on that scene, 

Of the dear old river Flesk, 

And where it flows, 

In the valley 'neatb the hill, 

Where no doubt it's running still, 

On its way down to the mill, 

I so well know! 
And before I reach the clay, 
Though I'll soon be getting gray, 
I would like awhile to stray, 

There alone ! 
I'd note every bush and tree, 
As I remember them to be, 
Then I'd fall upon my knee, 

Agra machree! 

(Love of my heart.) 



46 



NATURE 

Who would not love nature, 
In its wild rugged state; 

Who would not love nature, 
If but for its own sake ! 

The ocean's wild billows, 
That roll on the deep; 

And its fathomless waters, 
That are salted to keep. 

With myriads of creatures, 
That sport on its waves; 

Or under its waters, 

In its rocks and its caves. 

They love and imbibe it, 
As we bask in the sun; 

And have always enjoyed it, 
Since the world begun. 

In its madly wild motion, 
Where thousands of ships 

Are tossed at its notion, 
Where men their lives risk. 

Those waves of the ocean, 
That beat on the rocks, 

But never are shaken, 

With its fiercest attacks. 

47 



For ever those waters 
Are beating the shore, 

With their wasted power, 
But have gained no more. 

They have wasted their fury, 

In beating the land; 
But must always return 

Again to the sand. 

Those wild mountain gorges, 
Whose sides are so deep; 

And fill us with awe, 
As we over them peep. 

With their rocks overhanging 
The mad gurgling stream, 

Whose waters are churned 
To the color of cream. 

And the wood-covered valley, 
Where the forests are seen; 

Which darken the sky 

With their foliage of green. 

There is so much in nature 
That we cannot describe ; 

It's like counting the number 
Of bees in a hive. 
48 



It's part of our nature 
That we should pervert; 

It was one of the legacies 
Left us at our birth. 

With the babe in the cradle 

It's nature to cry ; 
And when they can't do so 

They are ready to die. 

With mountains and rivers, 

And valleys so green, 
I'll always remember 

That beautiful scene. 

And turbulent waters, 
That run down the hill; 

I'll keep in my memory, 
A place for them still. 

The ocean with sea-birds 

Between sea and sky, 
That hover around us, 

With their shrill, piercing cry. 



The whole panorama, 
To me seems so grand; 

That I love the wild ocean. 
As I do the dry land. 
49 



THE HONEY BEE 

The busy bee, that useful thing, 
That rests not day nor night ; 

And is so quick to use his sting, 
Which he keeps out of sight. 

He rests not till he makes his comb, 
And fills it with sweet food ; 

And he would fain defend his home, 
From all who would intrude. 

He goes about from day to day, 
And gathers honey from the flowers 

Which he finds growing along the way, 
'Midst pleasant shady bowers. 

He flits among the various plants, 
Of flowers both rich and rare, 

And gathers all the sweets he wants, 
From whom he does not care. 

He alights upon the hyacinth, 

Then to the tulip goes ; 
But as they have no sweet perfume, 

Then he 'lights upon the rose. 

He is indeed a busy bee, 

And always seems to thrive; 

He carries bee bread on his knee, 
With which to fill his hive. 
50 



We too should emulate the bee, 
And profit by time given ; 

And lay up for ourselves a store 
Of good works safe in Heaven. 



THE BIRD OF PASSAGE 

The birds of passage, those welcome guests 
That make to us their yearly round, 

And always to our mind suggest 

That summertime has come around. 

They came here for the summer months, 
And but that short time did reside, 

For then they sought for other haunts, 
As did the quickly ebbing tide. 

We like to see that feathery tribe, 

Dressed out in plumage bright and gay, 

And wish they longer could reside, 
They've only got so long to stay. 

There is the robin-redbreast mild, 
That comes around our kitchen door, 

Will pick the crumbs from any child, 
Although not seen by them before. 

51 



We have the swallow, quick of wing, 
Which comes upon us unaware, 

It is the surest sign of spring 

Whene'er his presence doth appear. 

The little snow-bird comes around, 

And where he comes from no one knows, 

But very soon we see the ground 
Will all be covered up with snows. 

We have the pretty bob-o'link, 
Here from northeastern states, 

His summer coat is black as ink, 
But he's changeable of tastes, 

For here he's known as the wheat bird, 
And for his gluttony pays the price, 

For when he goes south to the swamps, 
They kill him as the bird of rice. 

The bird of passage, that pretty thing, 
That leaves each land without regret, 

And always travels on the wing, 

And by that means keeps out of debt. 

The bird of passage comes to mate, 

And makes himself a little home; 

He likes to have good things to eat, 

And be at liberty to roam. 

52 



The bird of passage, pretty name, 
Although from us they soon depart; 

Like those who seek for wealth and fame, 
Soon all their conquests come to naught. 

We are as birds of passage, too, 

As through this world we take our flight, 
And though our years here are but few, 

They fly by quickly as the kite. 



THE MORNING SUN 

The morning sun that shines so bright, 

From o'er the mountain's rugged top ; 
And gently sheds his brilliant light, 

Which quickly dries the night dew-drop; 
It shines upon the sparkling dews, 

Which makes them sparkle as they glitter, 
And cast the shades of various hues, 

Which makes the fields look like a river; 
It sparkles on the splashing spray 

Of rushing waters o'er the rocks, 
O'er all of which it casts its rays, 

Which make like diamonds those old rocks, 
And penetrates the seething foam 

With a transparency so bright 
That, though we hear those cataracts groan, 

They fill our hearts with keen delight. 

53 



The sun, with strong and mighty power, 

Dispels the darkness of the night, 
And makes us seek a shady bower 

When he is at his greatest height. 
The sun brings warmth to all the earth, 

And giveth strength to opening buds, 
For then the world is full of mirth, 

With cheerful music of the birds. 
The moon reflects its mellow light, 

Which it has borrowed from the sun, 
And lightens up the dark of night, 

When our day of play or labor's done, 
And though the moon imparts its light, 

It has no heat it can bestow, 
It takes the sun at greater height, 

To heat this cold world here below. 
The sun, that shines in every clime, 

And mystifies the greatest sage, 
And though it lasts here through all time, 

It grows no older with each age. 
He is ever watchful of his course, 

And never once has gone astray, 
And though he leaves us of a night, 

He always visits us next day. 
For God, that made the sun and moon, 

And all the planets overhead, 
They ever do His blessed will, 

Although those planets all are dead. 

54 



THE BEAUTIFUL MOON 

The beautiful moon, which shines at night, 
When all the world seems dead; 

And fills the earth with its mellow light, 
Which is so gently shed. 

When the moon's soft gentle rays 

Light up the earth and sky, 
Through the moon may God be praised, 

Who rules all from on high. 

The beautiful moon with its borrowed light, 

Divested of its heat ; 
Which makes the world feel bright and glad, 

Where youthful lovers meet. 

That wondrous orbit overhead, 

That shines on us below; 
And lightens up the darkest skies, 

While the sun is laying low. 



DOWN ON THE FARM 

Down on the farm where the alfalfa is in blossom, 
And the wheat, oats and 'taters are ripening in 
May, 
Then soon we'll have corn a-coming in tassel, 
For ere this, in Texas they've laid by the hay. 

55 



There's where the peach trees with white and pink 
cover 
With fragrance so sweet as to perfume the air, 
And many a maid with her dear ardent lover 
Will stroll 'neath its cool shade, from trouble 
and care. 

Down in the meadows where the young lambs are 
bleating, 
As they skip over hillocks, so sprightly and gay, 
While at times they desist from their play to go 
eating 
The young grass so tender which grows by the 
way. 

Down on the farm where life is worth living, 
They are closer to nature, which would be my 
choice, 
For that was the earth and its choicest fruits 
given, — 
To live in the country I think would be nice. 

Down on the farm where the clear water's flowing, 

And the angler with rod sets a bait for the fish, 

Then after the day you would hear his vain 

blowing, 

Even though he had paid his own coin for a 

dish. 

56 



Down on the farm beneath the sun broiling, 
And crossing through furrows and stubbles all 
day, 

The farmer spends most of a lonesome life toiling, 
For which he expects to get paid up some day. 

The youth on the farm will spend his life wishing, 
And longs for the time when he can get away, 

And thinks to be there is a curse, not a blessing, 
But like to Maud Muller, must still rake the hay. 



THE RIVER 

The river where it gets its start upon the moun- 
tain side, 

A tiny little stream we see that's scarcely a foot 
wide; 

It trickles through the rugged rocks through 
most intricate ways, 

But never once it turns back, but on its journey 
stays. 

It flows along the hillside beneath some stately 

trees, 
That wave their mighty branches as they swing 

before the breeze; 

57 



We hear its music voices as it leaves the mountain 

side, 
And on its way rejoices as it rushes toward the 

tide. 

It travels from the mountain as with a mighty 

bound, 
And sparkles as a fountain as it seeks for lower 

ground ; 
It passes by a growing tree which suits the 

beaver's eye, 
Beneath which he would make his home or know 

the reason why. 

For the shy and timid beaver a most stupendous 

task, 
From which he never wavers nor thinks how long 

'twill last ; 
He digs himself a cosey home beneath the mossy 

banks, 
Upon which he would like to roam and play his 

little pranks. 

With a willingness he goes to work and cuts the 

tree in two, 
Regardless of the time it takes, no easy thing 

to do; 

58 



Then mud he draws around it and fills up every 

stop, 
And lets no water through it, but only o'er the 

top. 

It makes a bright and pretty lake upon the ground 

below, 
Which makes a little waterfall which o'er the dam 

doth flow; 
Then down beneath the water, away from sun 

and rain. 
The sly amphibious beaver his stronghold doth 

maintain. 

The rivulet seeks the valley, as for the sea it's 

bound, 
And has no time to tarry, as it rumbles o'er the 

ground ; 
It flows through lovely meadows with odoriferous 

flowers, 
Where many love to tarry and while away the 

hours. 

It passes lovely villas that dot along the way, 
And runs through mighty cities where happy 

children play; 
Upon its placid waters are ships with golden store, 
But it passes all in silence and will return no more. 

59 



We, too, are like the river that hurries to the sea, 

So quickly make our journey into eternity; 

We seek the passing pleasures which here on earth 

abound, 
Instead of seeking treasures which only in Heaven 

are found. 



THE FLOW AND EBB 

I stood upon the pebbly shore, 

To watch the rushing tide, 
And see the waves roll o'er and o'er, 

As they reached out deep and wide. 

I stood and watched for many an hour, 

But I could not understand; 
They seemed as if they had lost their power, 

And receded from the land. 

Our lives are like the rushing tide, 

Full in the bloom of youth; 
But when the ebb sets in in life, 

We realize the truth. 

From coming age we cannot run, 

No matter how we try ; 
And if our lives are spent in waste, 

We'll rue it when we die. 

60 



We should always look well to our health, 

It is easier lost than found; 
For when we pass from life to death, 

They lay us 'neath the ground. 



AN ANSWER 

TO AN INQUIRY CONCERNING THE MAID 
OF THE MIST 

The Maid of the Mist, 
I wish you'd desist, 
But if you persist, 
I now will insist, 
You'll find a fair maiden, 
If you find her at all. 
She floats in the vapors, 
Of Niagara Falls ; 
She is but a myth, 
But we love the sight, 
And at her form we wonder, 
And as we stand upon the land 
The breakers fall like thunder. 
And then it seems 
It's but a dream, 
As such beauty rare, 
Cannot be real. 
61 



TEXAS THIRTY YEARS AGO 

The Texas steer is not as then, 

A terror to the most of men, 

But fat and sleek, and plump and round, 

And off his carcass every pound 

Is made into a juicy steak, 

Fit for an epicure to eat. 

The Texas cow, it is agreed, 
Has very much been changed in breed, 
And like the Texas steer of yore 
Such cattle we have got no more ; 
With pastures wild and desert plain, 
'Twas said, we never got a rain. 

But in this State all things are changed, 
And garden spots made of the range; 
For in this State we then had need 
To keep wild cattle of such breed, 
Where ravenous wolves and lions bold 
Would prey on them, both young and old. 

They needed horns both long and stout, 
To put such enemies to rout ; 
Their legs were long, their horns were wide, 
They quickly crossed the country side; 
For then they were no gentle things, 
Nor were they held within the pens. 

62 



But since the country has so changed, 
And they are limited in range, 
They need no horns for their defence, 
Nor nimble legs to cross the trench ; 
Of all these things they had no need, 
So we have simply changed the breed. 

Now on the hillside near the creek, 
They have laid out a city street, 
And where the panther lay and rose, 
It's there the finest city grows. 
It started as a hamlet small, 
Which only had a wooden wall, 

But as the ranges they grew smaller, 
Those city buildings they grew taller, 
For so in time, where'er you go, 
You'll find the man there with the hoe, 
And thus we find the State is changed, 
And garden spots made of the range. 



TEXAS IS GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME 

Some people like the world to see, 
But Texas is good enough for me ; 
While others seek a cooler clime, 
Where rocks and mountains tower sublime 

63 



Or climb the Colorado hills, 

Where the pure zephyrs cure our ills ; 

Some say it is the place to be, 

But Texas is good enough for me. 

I love its rich and fertile plains, 
Beneath a canopy of blue, 

Where healthful plenty always reigns ; 
Texas for me will do. 



TEXAS BEST 

This Texas State we know is best, 
We love it better than the rest; 
Though other skies may seem as fair, 
I better like to see them here. 

Though other stars are shining bright, 
I like to view them here to-night ; 
Although the summer-time is here, 
Of the hot sun we have no fear. 

For o'er the prairies from the seas 
There comes a cool refreshing breeze, 
That modifies the summer's heat, 
Which causes the people to crowd the street, 

64 



Where they delight to drive and move, 
And visitors for health improve; 
It is the place to spend one's life, 
Where we can live away from strife, 

And stroll out-doors throughout the year, 
As they of sunstroke never hear; 
And though we feel the sun's hot rays, 
We like to see those balmy days. 

Then when it comes, the bright moonlight, 
That fills our heart up with delight ! 
So then in Texas will I stay, 
As I love its night as I do its day. 



THE PRAIRIE SCHOONER 

The Prairie Schooner, that once was seen 
Strewed out along the Plains, 

So thickly packed with human beings — 
Now a memory but remains. 

Those pioneers of early days, 

That opened up the West, 
And fought the savage all the ways, 

Are mostly gone to rest. 

65 



They were the men of might and main, 

That knew not the word, fail, 
And many a skulking savage slain, 

They left upon their trail. 

Those men that braved the trackless waste, 
Where white men ne'er had tread, 

They were the leaders of a race 
That knew not aught of dread. 

Those Prairie Schooners, lank and long, 

With canvased sides and top, 
Would wind their weary way along, 

And knew not where to stop. 

They crossed the mountain's rugged top, 

And down the desert plain, 
The one was naught but dreary rocks, 

The other knew not rain. 

These were the men that blazed the way, 

And women just as bold, 
And many of them whose hair got gray 

In the efforts to get gold. 

They settled up a barren waste, 

Where buffalo roamed at will, 
And only for their roaming taste 

It would be barren still. 

66 



The Prairie Schooner's but a jest, 

To travellers of to-day, 
Who take a pleasure trip out West ; 

Thank those who led a way. 

They ride in palace Pullman cars, 
With diners drawn in front, 

They sit at ease and smoke cigars, 
And think they've done some stunt. 

For those who ride the roughest seas, 
And push their way ahead, 

So others travel at their ease, 
When they are lying dead. 



MANITOU, COLORADO 

Aug. 12, 1909 

It rains here every day, 
It is too cold to stay, 
And I'll hie myself away, 
To Texas. 

Where the sun is at its height, 
And they love the bright moonlight, 
There they sleep good every night, 
In Texas. 
67 



There they rest beneath the shade, 
Of the heat they're not afraid, 
And their fortune's easily made 
In Texas. 

There I'll make myself content, 
Where our time is pleasant spent, 
And you'll not your choice repent, 
Of Texas. 

When my race on earth is run, 
And my crown in Heaven is won, 
They shall lay me 'neath the sun, 
In Texas. 

And when Gabriel's trumpet blows, 
And disturbs our sweet repose, 
We'll rejoice that we arose, 
In Texas. 



THE GLOWING WEST 

Give me the West, 

Away from home 
Where there is no rest 

There I love to roam. 

Where the changing scenes 
Of stream and wood 

Suits a restless spirit 
Of a roaming mood. 

There the brave and fearless 
Shall push their way, 

But the cowardly weakling 
Doesn't dare to stay. 

Give me the West 

With its mountain peaks, 
With its placid waters 

And its turbulent creeks. 

There I love to live, 
In the golden West, 

For it is the land 
I love the best. 



69 



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 

The Blue and the Gray, 
Once fearless and bold, 

Are fast going to decay. 

For they're both growing old. 

In the days of their prime, 

When they rushed to the field , 

They did deeds sublime, 
Neither willing to yield. 

They strove for the mastery 

Or fought for a hill, 
Where each his heart's blood, 

He was willing to spill. 

We still love the Gray, 

It represents the lost cause; 

And should we forget it 
We'd break nature's laws. 

Their memory we'll cherish, 
Long after they're gone ; 

And lest it should perish 
We'll keep it in song. 

And when they have come, 
To the last fighting day, 
There's no place to run, 

And they know not the way. 
70 



They have made their last stand, 
No more banners unfurled; 

And the Blue and the Gray, 

They have reached a new world. 



THE STARS AND STRIPES AND 
STARS AND BARS 

The stars and stripes and stars and bars, 

They left each other full of scars, 

And though each tried with all their might, 

The other side was full of fight; 

The North they thought it was their mission, 

To whip the South into submission, 

The South their rights they would maintain, 

Though they had every soldier slain. 

They both were brothers of one race, 

And it was really a disgrace, 

That they should mix in deadly strife 

And take away each other's life; 

Each side thought they were in the right, 

And therefore thought they had to fight, 

As if it were the sole solution, 

To spill the blood of this great nation. 

The North they gloried in their strength, 
And were not willing to relent, 

71 



The South were not in numbers strong, 
But still they did the war prolong 
Until they both had got their fill, 
With broken hearts and empty till. 
They both were of a warlike race, 
They'd rather death than face disgrace. 

For Celtic blood ran in their veins, 
Which can be proven by their names, 
The world saw and looked with wonder 
To see us making such a blunder; 
Some envious eyes in foreign lands, 
Would like to see us break the bands 
That welded us in strength and power, 
As they before our strength should cower. 

Both sides they did for certain feel 

They had a foe worthy their steel, 

And though the South, it was defeated, 

Their dipping flag, we still shall greet it; 

They showed the world what they could do, 

Although in numbers they were few, 

And now as peace has come to stay, 

The " Blue " should mingle with the " Gray," 

And clasp their hands in friendship's .grasp, 

Which should we hope forever last, 

For North and South and East and West, 

Should be at peace as they are blessed; 

72 



With half a continent their own, 
Where all of earth's products are grown, 
And peace and plenty here abound, 
Which nowhere else on earth are found. 

So Stars and Stripes and Stars and Bars, 
Should try and heal up those old scars, 
And be at peace forevermore, 
For soon they'll cross the Yonder Shore. 



WHO IS THE GENTLEMAN? 

The gentleman, how nice the name, 

When it is spoken with the truth, 
But half the time we hear the same 

Addressed to him who is a brute. 
The gentleman, where should he be? 

We find him in all walks of life, 
He need not pride on family tree, 

Nor high connections of a wife. 

He's gentle as a little child, 

Although in body brave and strong; 
You'll find him always meek and mild, 

But ready to resent a wrong; 
73 



He need not dress in tailored suits, 
Nor need he be in latest style, 

Choked up with collars and with cuffs, 
And wearing a bewitching smile. 

The gentleman will never fight, 

But in a gentlemanly way, 
When he has to defend his right, 

And then he'll lay them snug away ; 
The gentleman when, passing by, 

You hap to brush him on the street, 
Will utter not revengeful cry, 

Nor stare around and grit his teeth. 

He's not the one who rides the horse, 

Though he may follow up the hounds, 
And leave destruction on his track, 

Though he be owner of the grounds ; 
The word itself, how oft ill-used, 

And dragged, it seems, beneath our feet, 
To every one that we may choose, 

Or who may meet us on the street. 

The man dressed up who'll take a ride, 
Upon a street-car crowded down, 

And see a lady with a babe 

There standing all the way from town ; 

74 



While others rise and give their seat, 
And stand around, though it be hot, 

From him a stare she'll only meet, 
Is he a gentleman? No, he's not. 

The gentleman, he is the one 

Who when his mother or his wife, 
Or younger brother, though in fun, 

May do something not quite right ; 
Will speak to them with gentle voice, 

And try to smooth away their cares, 
And say things to them that are nice, 

Which sounds so sweet to loving ears. 



THE MAN OF RENOWN 

There is our Captain Loyd, 
He is true, he's been tried; 
His charity knoweth no limit; 
He is now past his best, 

So he's taking his rest ; 

He has surely arrived at the summit; 

He was one of the boys, 

With bright shining eyes. 

75 



His figure is straight and erect, 
He always looked down 
Upon those with a frown, 
If ever they acted too pert. 

He wanted fair play, 

No matter which way; 

And ever was with the dog down, 

And when the boys lost their pet, 

The Captain would get, 
Loose every dog in the pound; 
He is good to the poor, 
And always was sure 

To help every one that applied; 

You'll no doubt hear it said, 

Long after he's dead, 

'Twas a pity such a good man had died. 

And when he is gone, 

From here he for one, 

Will leave many eyes with tears filled; 

He must not be in haste, 

As we know that his place, 

By no other shall ever be filled; 

For such good men as he, 

Are not easy to find. 

76 



He is noble and true, 
Yet gentle and kind; 
It is not for acquaintance, 
I speak of him so, 

Because he in person 
I scarcely do know; 
We are sorry we could 
Not have more of his kind, 

Who attend their own business, 
But others' don't mind; 
Of the First Bank in town 
He is president, 

And its success is due, 
To the money he spent ; 
It stands here a monument, 
To his pluck and renown. 

And shall ever remain, 
Here a credit to town; 
But he is still with us here, 
For he is a stayer. 

And we hope that his life will be long, 
And while he is left 
He'll be possessed of good health, 
And shall be both happy and strong. 

77 



ELEGY ON WOMAN 

At the dawn of the world when Adam was made, 
And he sinned through the woman, which led to 

the grave, 
She was a companion to watch o'er his ways, 
And be in this world a comfort always. 
But alas ! she too soon chanced to fall off from 

grace, 
And made of that Eden a desolate place; 
Her place in the garden no more it was seen, 
But she was the wiser tho' far sadder being. 

She was forced to go out in the bleak world alone, 
With no one but Adam to make her a home, 
And there the first woman was a comfort to man, 
And she has ever since done the best that she can ; 
She's the pride of his mansion where'er it may be, 
And she stays with him steadfast though he cross 

the deep sea, 
She brightens his life, and she brightens his home, 
Which proves what God said, man should not be 

alone. 

She'll nurse him through sickness when his fever 

is high, 
And stay at his bedside till he heaves his last sigh, 
When man in his folly has fallen so low 
That no one of virtue would dare there to go, 
But those who have fallen as low as himself, 

78 



And have neither honor nor pride in them left, 
With his Drain in a whirl, and his head going 

around, 
And he seeks for himself a soft spot in the ground. 

Even there he'll find woman as degraded as he, 
Who will bend o'er his body as she drops on her 

knee, 
And cool down that fever that burns his brow, 
And bathes his hot temples as she only knows how ; 
She makes it her duty to comfort mankind, 
But oft to his folly she seems to be blind, 
Her features are handsome, she's noble and kind, 
But nevertheless she has her own mind. 

Take her from the world, what good would it be? 
For man would not then care to eat of the tree; 
Although it was woman that led him to wrong, 
But ever since then she has helped him along; 
For though she has fallen from that beauteous 

place, 
She has since by God's goodness been restored to 

His grace, 

And we now see it plainly, though she led him to 

sin, 
He would not be happy were she not therein, 
So wherever on earth you may happen to go, 
You'll find there a woman with love to bestow, 
She'll bestow it on something, if only the cat, 
Or that monstrous thing on her head called a hat. 

79 



BLONDE OR BRUNETTE? 

In answer to your question, 
Why men prefer a blonde; 

I doubt much the assertion, 

For it stands them well in hand, 

When looking for life's partner, 
Know the color of her hair; 

For if you chance to get a blonde, 
You had better then take care. 

The blondes we know are pretty, 
And we leave them with regret; 

But if you want to get a wife, 
You had better get brunette. 

The blondes are not all fickle, 

Nor in their nature cold; 
And though they have some mettle, 

They're worth their weight in gold. 

For most women are lovely, 
And in this world a boon; 

And though some are not so comely, 
For all of them there is room. 



80 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE 

The haunted house, that dismal place, 
Where no one cares to go and loiter ; 

Though once 'twas filled with beauty's grace, 
And laughing eyes, then none was brighter. 

The haunted house, where bats, by day, 
Do spend their time in sleep's repose; 

No children dare go there to play, 

Though what's the reason no one knows. 

Where silent sounds run through the hall, 
And fancied visions of things unseen; 

We seem to think we hear the call 

Of people there that once have been. 

The haunted house, where spirits come, 

And visit in the shadows dim; 
When all the house is filled with gloom, 

And everything is dead and still. 

The cricket sings upon the hearth, 
Where fires were lighted long ago ; 

That gloom detracts not from its mirth, 
Of its being haunted they don't know. 

Up in the attic overhead, 

The frightened bird, bewildered, flying, 
And those who lie below in bed, 

They think they hear the spirit sighing. 

81 



The haunted house, with mystic air, 
Of spirits there which so bewilder; 

We seem to hear the cracking stair, 
As if the house would break asunder. 

Of it we're told some uncanny tales, 
Of persons seen all dressed in white, 

They knew them not for they wore veils, 
But made their visits every night. 

We heard of crimes of darkest hue, 
Committed there within those walls ; 

They then were hid from human view, 
But now the spirits make their calls. 

Man's brain is like that haunted place, 
Stored up with memories good and bad; 

And if we stray away from grace, 
Our latter days shall then be sad. 



THE AMERICAN BOY 

The American Boy is the boy of the age, 
In time he'll get to be a sage; 
That doesn't mean he should be a " Russell," 
Although in time he'll have to hustle. 

82 



He must keep his brain and body sound, 
If in this world he'd hold his ground; 
For in this country at this date, 
Where opportunities are great, 

For those who would attain success, 
They must not spend their lives amiss ; 
And wait for luck to come around, 
For with those, luck is seldom found. 

For opportunity when it raps, 
And you are not at hand perhaps, 
Will not again call at your door, 
As it has been there once before. 

For those who precious time would lose, 
And wait to get in dead men's shoes, 
They only spend their life in vain, 
And never shall success attain. 

For if success we would attain, 

We must work our body and our brain; 

And keep our faculties awake, 

When life's success, it is at stake. 

The American Boy we have to-day, 
He will not always a boy stay; 
But soon he will be fully grown, 
Then he will seek another home. 

83 



And mix with men of great affairs, 
And they will bring him many cares ; 
For success, it calls for sacrifice, 
To attain which we must pay the price. 

For this world is all a battlefield, 
And we must fight or else must yield ; 
For " to the victor belong the spoils," 
And on him only the world smiles, 

But cares not to hear our tales of woe, 
As we hear them where'er we go ; 
Which some would pour into our ears, 
As if we had no other cares. 

The American Boy is the boy of the age, 
And must act his part on the world's stage; 
And when at last the curtain falls, 
He must go to meet his God who calls. 



THE YANKEE GIRL 

The Yankee Girl, 
That pretty Miss, 

With sparkling eyes 
And lips to kiss. 
84 



With mellow voice, 
And noble mien, 

That Yankee girl, 
She is a queen. 

She came here from 
That State so far; 

They were the first 
To break ajar. 

They did despise 

A foreign foe; 
So overboard 

The tea did throw. 

It's they that fought 
For Bunker Hill; 

And all this time 
They hold it still. 

They fought to save 
The stars and stripes ; 

To give all men, 
Just, equal rights. 

That lady came 
From noble stock; 

And when she leaves 
We'll want her back. 
85 



That Boston girl, 
That Yankee Queen; 

With sparkling eyes, 
And noble mien. 

That noble girl 
We'll call our own; 

And while she's here 
She'll be at home. 

That Yankee Girl, 

With sparkling eyes; 

Whoever wins her 
Will win a prize. 

And when she reaches 
Home once more, 

Where they regard 
Us as a foe, 

She must put that 
Out of their minds 

And tell them that 
We're good and kind. 

And take to them 
Our wishes best; 

And hope they soon 
Will be our guest. 

66 



I have no more 

Time here to write ; 
So I wish you all, 

My folks, good-night. 



THE GERMAN SCHOOL-BOY 

Ven I vas some young wons, 

Some long time ago ; 
Mine self unt mine brudder 

To skoole ve did go. 

Ven play time vas come, 
Unt ve all did vent out; 

Unt I ran mine self home, 

For they call me " Sour kraut." 

Unt it makes me so mat, 
That I there unt then said, 

I'd never go back 

To that skoole if I could. 

Poor childrens like me, 

That comes here to skoole, 

They treats me so mean, 
Me thinks it vas cruel. 

87 



I don't know vat's the matter, 
Mit them American peoples ; 

That calls me such names, 

Ven I minds mine own business. 



CHILDHOOD DAYS 

In a cottage by the river 

Where in childhood days I played, 
I would stroll along in summer 

Or I'd rest beneath the shade. 

And o'erhead the birds were singing, 
Softly warbling to their mates, 

While below the boys were swimming, 
For it was no time for skates. 

And I viewed the distant mountains 
Decked with purple, green and gold, 

From whose bosom as a fountain 
Sprang the waters clear and cold. 

And my memory loves to wander 
To that bright and happy scene, 

For time only makes me fonder 
Of that little isle so green. 
88 



MY BOY 

That little boy that used to be 
Forever climbing on my knee; 
And followed me where'er I went, 
And called on me for every cent. 

He'd wait to meet me when I'd come, 
And he was always on the run; 
His youth was bright, and gay and free, 
The happiest days he'll ever see. 

When other cares will fill his mind, 
He'll oft remember when a child, 
Of when his mother kissed his cheek, 
Which brought his greatest pain relief. 

His mind will turn unto those days, 
He toddled up and down the stairs ; 
Those nights he sought his little bed, 
When he his evening prayers had said. 

Those were the days which seemed so long, 
But his future memory they will throng; 
In later days, when he had grown, 
He took his horse and dogs alone. 

And sought those sports that suit a boy, 
And always bring them so much joy; 
When school was o'er and he was free, 
He helped to take the cares off me. 

89 



But now that he is a man grown, 
He has a business of his own ; 
Where he must take his place with men, 
And be as good as any of them. 

But when in time we are weaned away, 
My memory then will often stray; 
As o'er my mind the thought will run, 
That he is still my own dear son. 

His mother, when she is old and gray, 
Will ever think of him and pray ; 
That God from sin will keep him free, 
As when he climbed upon her knee. 



THE LOVE-SICK SWAIN 

The stars above are brightly shining, 
Reflect their light upon the lake, 

And as I view your beauty smiling 
I only love you for your sake. 

I know I cannot live without you, 
To do your will shall be my joy, 

And all my thoughts shall be about you, 
For should you leave me I should die. 

90 



In time old age will mar thy beauty 
And leave its marks upon thy brow, 

I'll hold it as my sacred duty 
To do thy will as I do now. 

Life's cares shall move those pretty dimples, 
And rob thee of thy graceful form, 

My care shall smoothe away the wrinkles, 
And you shall rest upon my arm. 

SHE 

Why should we think about to-morrow? 

To-day looks good and bright to me; 
Each day should care for its own sorrow, 

Now life is full of pleasure and glee. 



LOVE'S RAMBLES 

In the valley by the greenwood, 
Where the sparkling waters flow, 

And the dewdrops kiss the violets 
In the morning ere we go, 

Where the busy bees are humming 
As they flit among the flowers, 

There to gather the sweet honey 
To be used in future hours. 
91 



There with her I used to wander 
In the fleetly passing hours, 

Which I now will say in candor 

Was much prettier than the flowers. 

And I love to hear her whisper, 
As she did in times gone by : 
" I'll not be to you a sister, 

For without you I would die." 



TOAST 

Given at the Wedding Breakfast op 

Mr. and Mrs. John R. Gaudin, 

March 3, 1908 

Here's to our Daughter, whom We call Dear, 
With light blue eyes and chestnut hair. 
Although from her we freely part 
The same shall almost break our hearts. 

Here's to her Husband she loves so well, 
May they in peace and comfort dwell, 
And may they ever feel as now 
Content to keep their marriage vow. 

We hope it shall be for the best ; 
Here's a toast to them and you, my guests. 

93 



MAN AND MAID 

The pensive maid, she'll sit and wait, 

And keep her eyes fixed on the gate, 

She'll watch for footsteps, and when they fall, 

She'll make her exit across the hall. 

For them she heaves a sigh of relief, 
I'm sure it is not one of grief, 
And ere he's time to enter in, 
She muses the dear, the darling thing. 

She quickly seeks the upper stair, 
And moves the paper from off her hair, 
Then with the powder, comb and brush, 
She seems as happy as a thrush. 

And thus she spends that pleasant time, 
A little primping being no crime, 
While all the time that loving swain, 
Is only trying to cool his brain. 

The darling boy, though fully grown, 
He ought with Mamma stay at home, 
And though we might them criticise, 
They each are perfect in the other's eyes. 

Then all those shy and loving sighs, 
Are never seen by human eyes, 
That maiden though some may despise, 
To him she is the only prize. 

93 



Though he a long, lean, lanky thing, 
She fain would have him for her King; 
For man and maiden, beast and bird, 
The same to each of them occurred. 

For only with delusions great. 
Would maiden ever get a mate, 
For so the Lord above ordained, 
To keep this world He has made. 

When Eve and Adam ate the fruit, 
It's only then they knew the truth, 
But when they knew it was too late, 
For they were put outside the gate. 

Though we know not what our fate will be, 
The preacher needs must have his fee, 
And ere he has time to seal our fate, 
We'd better look ere it's too late. 



94 



THE LADY WITH HUSBANDS TO BURN 

There once lived a maiden both comely and shy, 
Who thought she would ne'er get a lover, 

And live all alone by herself till she died 
And by herself cross the great river. 

But, such is the way with us here in life, 

The wheel gave a curious turn, 
And though we are told this world is a strife, 

That maid now has husbands to burn. 

She made a quick trip to a town on the Coast, 
To look of those wonderful ovens, 

And see how she'd like her last man in the roast, 
For she now had a husband to burn. 

For since she's had husbands by twos and by threes 

She mixed them all up in an urn, 
For then between them she could hardly choose, 

For they all looked alike when they're burned. 

Then while you enjoy the pleasure of life, 
Some day it may come to your turn, 

And do not forget that, at the end of this strife, 
You may yet take your place in the urn. 



95 



EPITAPH: G. CULLOP 

Dead and Alive 

Here lies the man 

Whose faults were few, if any ; 
Here lies the man 

Whose virtues, they were many. 

He was taken in his youth ; 

It's said the good must die ; 
He always told the truth 

For he couldn't tell a lie. 

He travelled to the very end 
The way he ought to go ; 

To every one he was a friend, 
And he never had a foe. 

We are told all flesh is grass, 
It is bright and green to-day, 

But only takes the reaper's hand 
To make it into hay. 

Perhaps the rascal's not dead yet, 
He'd cheat even the grave, 

For I just saw him driving up ; 
I knew he was a knave ! 



96 



IN THE COLD FROZEN NORTH 

In the cold frozen North, where the winter wind 

blows, 
And the natives are dressed to their eyes in fur 

clothes, 
Where the wind blows the ice from the mountain 

and hill 
In the face of the people, so cold and so chill. 

And the land all around is covered with snow, 
Not a green thing is found wherever you go, 
Where all the wild beasts, which suffer for food, 
Get but a poor shelter in the white frozen wood. 

The poor little birds, they fly from the trees, 
And go to the houses for fear they would freeze; 
The men in fur clothes, and the ladies in wraps, 
When by chance they go out, meet many mishaps. 

With their ears wrapped in furs, and their head 

tied around, 
They pick up their feet like they stuck to the 

ground, 
Some tell me they like it, I know not how so, 
To spend most their life half covered with snow. 

Get up in the morning, go out in the cold, 
Wouldn't live in that country were it covered with 
gold, 

97 



They suffer intensely with their fingers and toes, 
And feel like they'd lose the whole top of their nose. 

Of a cold winter night, as you sit by the fire, 

And the traveller outside has but one desire, 

To seek some protection from the wind and the 

snow, 
Which blows all around him, where'er he may go. 

Through the long winter nights, so cold and so 

still, 
When the waters are frozen that turn the mill, 
And the face of the earth is all covered with snow, 
And all roads look alike, we know not where to go. 

Give me the land where they never have snows, 
And the flowers in the wildwood, they bloom like 

the rose, 
In the month of December, up to Christmas Day ; 
So, having my choice, here in Texas I'll stay. 



98 



THE SUNNY SOUTH 

The Sunny South has ever been 
The subject of the poet's dream, 
It so delights the eye and ear, 
With cheerful music which we hear. 

And the gay plumage of the bird 
Whose voice but in the South is heard, 
With rivers where the fish abound 
And easy sustenance is found. 

Where gorgeous moss hangs from the trees, 
Which swing before the summer's breeze, 
There is where life is bright and gay, 
And January seems like it were May. 

Those summer days, so fresh and cool, 
Which puts new life into the soul, 
We sit beneath the shady trees, 
And there enjoy the summer's breeze. 

The Southern men are always brave, 
From early youth to ripe old age, 
Its women, they have ever been 
The fairest that the world has seen. 

The dark-eyed Senorita, she 
Has ever had man on his knee, 
To win a smile from whose bright eyes, 
He valued as the greatest prize. 

99 



They hold a charm that's all their own, 
Which nowhere else that we have known 
Is found among the colder climes, 
Upon which greater fortune smiles. 

Beneath the hot and burning sun, 
The greatest battles were lost and won, 
It's there the date and orange grows, 
And we spend our lives in sweet repose. 

It is there the flowers bloom all the year, 
Which fills with fragrance the pure air, 
Where once the virgin forests were, 
And stood the pine trees, spruce and fir. 

It's there you'll find the happy home, 
Where children play and ever roam, 
And all that charms the heart or mind, 
Which is a blessing to mankind. 



100 



NO RAIN 

If it would only rain 

Enough to lay the dust, 
And cool our fevered brain 

And quench our burning thirst; 
We view the azure skies, 

With rain clouds floating o'er, 
Which makes our hopes arise 

But rain, it comes no more. 

We are needing rain to-day, 

The earth is parched and dry, 
And everywhere we stray 

We hear the self same cry: 
" If it would only rain 

Enough to lay the dust, 
And cool our fevered brain, 

And quench, our burning thirst." 

The lawns, where grassy sod 

Beneath some stately trees, 
Whose branches bow and nod, 

As they flutter in the breeze; 
Their leaves with dust are laden ; 

The earth is cracked all round ; 
We need some rain from heaven 

To fructify the ground. 
101 



And when it rains again, 

Those fresh and copious showers 
Which never fail to bring 

The blossoms, fruits and flowers; 
It's then we will smile once more, 

When everything looks fresh, 
As we used to do of yore, 

For Texas still is best. 



KILLARNEY 

Killarney, oh, Killarney, although we're parted, 
By oceans of water, and thousands of miles, 

The thought of your beauty yet holds me 
enchanted, 
For still I would love to bask in your smiles. 

Oh, Killarney, thy beauty surpasses conception, 
With rivers and lakes like a beautiful dream ; 

And those who will seek you, will find no deception, 
Such beauty and grandeur is nowhere else seen. 

Your beautiful mountains, that slope to the river, 
And seen from a distance are purple and blue; 
A dear shady place, for the dream of a lover, 
Who should, like these mountains, be constant 
and true. 

102 



There is no need to draw on the imagination, 
To paint such a picture of beauty sublime, 

It's one of the wonders of a mighty creation, 
Which never grows less by the passage of time. 

Those lakes which abound with the legions of ages, 
And are such a wonder for us to behold, 

Have made such impressions on history's pages, 
But left on our memory a far greater hold. 

There stands Muckross Abbey across from the 
waters, 
Where warriors are sleeping, who fought for to 
save, 
The last to surrender, that famous Ross Castle, 
But now they're laid in that beautiful grave. 

You'll find there the beautiful Isle Innisfallen, 
Set out in the waters a mile from the shore, 
There lived the good monks, with their younger 
postulants, 
Who enriched the whole world, with their knowl- 
edge and lore. 



'r> 



Those beauties, once seen, shall ne'er be forgotten, 
They'll cling to our memories like a beautiful 
dream ; 
And when we're gone from here and forgotten, 
Still others will gloat o'er its valleys so green. 

103 



"MY COUNTRY" 

My country, Oh, how sweet the word, 
Which sounds so good to human ear 

And seems to us a word of love, 
Wherever we may chance to hear. 

My country, sweet as silver bells, 
As if it rang from steeples high, 

The word, it seems to hold a spell, 
For absent ones, they heave a sigh. 

My country, next to Mother dear, 

It is the nearest to our heart; 
For those who ramble far or near, 

The word, a sweetness doth impart. 

The traveller in a distant land, 

That seeks for wealth or perhaps fame, 
Were they a thousand times more grand, 

He always glories in the name. 

My country, be it great or small, 

Or blessed with nature's marvellous beauty, 
It always to our minds recalls, 

We cheerfully should do our duty. 

The name, it seems to hold a charm, 
To all who claim the name of man, 

And sounds the keynote of alarm, 
We'd die to save it when we can. 

104 



My country, Oh, such solemn words, 
Although in numbers they are few, 

They touch our hearts' most tender chords, 
And teach us wonders here to do. 

Up in the land of ice and snows, 

The shivering Lap tries to keep warm, 

Though very little else he knows, 

The name, for him it holds a charm. 

Upon the bleak and stormy coast 

That skirts the shores of Newfoundland, 

You hear the native people boast 

Of this my country, Oh, how grand ! 

Down in the Tropics' burning heat, 
Where reptiles hide with deadly sting, 

The name to them even seems sweet, 
And to their country still they cling. 

If those who live in burning climes, 

Or shiver in the Frigid Zone, 
Should love to hear those joyous chimes, 
" My country, my beloved home," 

Why should not we in temperate climes, 
Who have a country grand and free, 

Delight to hear those joyous chimes, 
" My country, Oh, how dear to me." 
105 « 



CHRISTMAS IS GONE 



Christmas is gone, but it brought to our mind 
The birth of the Saviour, so loving and kind; 
None else could redeem this world from sin, 
So on Christmas Day, He that work did begin. 

Begun in the dark dreary hours of the night, 
Before day had begun or the sun gave his light ; 
But the world was darker by far in His sight, 
So dark that the sun could not make it look bright. 

It was dark with the sins committed for years, 
With murders and crimes that would move us to 

tears, 
No crime was so great that they would not commit, 
And this world was naught but a dark dismal pit. 

The world was so low in idolatry steeped, 
They could not see through, the mist was so deep, 
They knew not their God, for which life was given, 
Which barred them from ever entering Heaven. 

The grave was no darker, more dismal, nor worse, 
Than the darkness of mankind when under God's 

curse, 
For God had abandoned man to his own will, 
The greatest misfortune that can us befall. 

106 



Like the doctor who knows that his patient is 

dying, 
Lets him eat what he wants, as there's no use 

denying 
Him the comforts of life the few hours that he 

lives, 
When there is no result from the treatment he 

gives. 

But God, He felt sorry for man here below, 
And He sent us His Son that things should not 

be so, 
And since He has come the world is brighter, 
And man's sins and sorrows, He has made them 

lighter. 

For none but a God could restore us to grace, 
And give fallen man his once forfeited place ; 
He filled the dark world with the light of His love, 
Which He brought here among us, from Heaven 
above. 



107 



CHRISTMAS IS GONE 

II 

Christmas is gone, it's a thing of the past, 
It is gone with its sorrows and joys, 
For pleasure and sorrow cannot always last, 
But new troubles and hopes must arise. 

There were many both happy and joyful last year, 
They're gone like the flowers of the spring, 
And though we may shed for their memory a tear, 
They shall never rejoin us again. 

The flowers of the springtime they die before frost 
Leaves its blight like a burning coal, 
So the young of this world are oft taken first, 
Ere sin hath once blighted their soul. 



o 



They're taken by God to His mansions above, 
From this cold and bleak world below, 
For God only takes those to Heaven He loves, 
We therefore should rejoice that they go. 

Christmas comes around in its annual tour, 

As it rolls each short year o'er our head, 

And each year brings us nearer to that little 

mound, 
They shall put o'er our grave when we're dead. 

108 



Perhaps he who's writing these verses to-day, 
When Christmas makes its next call, 
May be lying with loved ones beneath the cold clay, 
Much worse things might him befall. 

The dear little children, they long for to see 
The feast-day of Christmas come around, 
They long for to see the green Christmas Tree, 
Which in each happy home should be found. 

The old, they rejoice in the joys of the child, 

As it brings to their mind days of yore, 

They help them those few pleasant hours to 

beguile, 
Which, once passed, can return no more. 



PALLASDALE 

In a bright and lovely valley, 
On the slope of Coyote hills, 

There lives a happy family 
Of " Quails " without the quills. 

There a young and handsome lady, 
In a cottage painted green, 

With husband and two children, 
Reigns as though she were a queen. 
109 



While just across the drive-way 
There stands a " Pallas Grand," 

Though no such stately mansion 
Was built upon the land. 

There's where the sparkling waters 
Flow smoothly o'er the ground, 

For in that happy valley 
No rugged rocks are found. 

There of a summer's evening, 

The Hereford cattle roam, 
And wind their way through alfalfa hay 

To the dear old Pallas Home. 



MY DEAR SISTER ROSE 

Fort Worth, Tex., Dec. 29, 1910. 

Mrs. F. C. Haynes, Easthampton, Mass. 

My dear Sister Rose, as I owe you a letter, 
Which I now ought to write but I thought 

'twould be better 
To write it in verse as I so dislike prose, 
Which will, I am sure, be accepted by Rose. 

110 



You so like my fruit cake, you say 'twas the 

best, 
Which really in truth I must take as a jest; 
For fruit cake and pies your own State is noted, 
And all who have been there that honor have 

voted. 

They . are noted for pies, for cakes, and for 

beans, 
For factories and colleges, and paper by reams ; 
There is nothing in Texas that we can supply it, 
Except we should send you a chunk of our 

climate. 

But climate is a hard thing to send by the mail, 
And if it should get there by then 'twould be 

stale ; 
For climate is a thing not easy to send, 
For here, when we get it, it comes in the wind. 

It comes in the summer, a fresh cooling breeze, 
As if it had just travelled over the seas; 
So it seems to my mind, I had better not try it, 
You had better come here, if you want to 
enjoy it. 

Your niece, Mary Campbell, is doing very nice, 
But she looks disconcerted for she can't find ice ; 

111 



She seems to be lost here, but I know not why 

so, 
Except for the reason, she cannot find snow. 

We travelled around much, fine country we saw, 
But all through her travels she thought of her 

Ma; 
And when travel was done and she sought her 

repose, 
She still kept a thought for her loving Aunt 

Rose. 

And still I must tell you, as I like to be frank, 
She said some nice things of her own Uncle 

Frank ; 
Her brothers and sisters she did not forget, 
I think with them all she must still be a pet. 

And now I must close, as I am crowded for time, 
And I hope you'll excuse my much hurried 

rhyme ; 
Now, I wish you, my folks, the season's best 

wishes, 
And all of the family, they send to you kisses. 

Your Brother, 

W. J. Doherty. 



112 



Fort Worth, 'Tex., Jan. 28, 1911. 

Mrs. C. L. Clark, Easthampton, Mass. 

My dear Mrs. Clark, 
It must seem like a lark, 
To answer } r our letter so late ; 
But 'twas such a surprise, 
That you should recognize 
The merits of that little cake. 
I must here admit, 
That I never sent it, 
And the whole thing is a mistake ; 
'Twas your own Mary Campbell 
Who fixed up that bundle, 
But I now disremember the date. 
So the chapter will close, 
As it did with our " Rose," 
And we'll start on a different theme. 
Now, my dear little maid, 
You need not be afraid 
To express your fond wishes to me, 
For I so much regret 
Not to know such a pet, 
And those dear ones that sit on your knee. 
I'm told there are four, 
But maybe there are more, 
For numbers I can't recollect; 
But whate'er they may be, 
113 



We all here agree, 
They are a pleasure 
To sit 'round your hearth. 
I hear it said here, 
You are such a dear, 
And lovable one to behold ; 
But you're so far away, 
That I very much fear 
You never shall visit our home. 
We're so very far south, 
And it's out of your route 
To take such a journey out west; 
Although I declare, 
We would make it appear, 
That the trip for your health would be best. 
The weather down here 
Is so pleasant and clear, 
You'd think 'twas the middle of June, 
For it's " eighty " right here, 
As I sit on the chair, 
Although there's no fire in the room. 
It's now 10 p.m., 
So it's time to begin, 
To bring these few lines to a close. 
With love to you all, 
Both large ones and small, 
And my dear little sister called " Rose," 
But before I do close, 
114 



And seek my repose, 

I had best send good wishes from all ; 

Your Aunt Kate and I, 

Miss Mary and the boy, 

Although he is now rather tall. 

Your Uncle. 

Fort Worth, Texas, Feb. % 1911. 

Mr. Wallace Graves, 
So. Hadley Falls, Mass. 

My dear nephew Wallace, 
You'll perceive I'm most careless, 
And negligent in my reply; 
But now, from hence forth, 

Though I won't take an oath, 
I'll answer them, you can rely. 
I so dislike to write, 
Though try as I might, 

I've got a repugnance that way ; 
And really, besides, I always realize 
That I never have got much to say. 
For the sake of old times, 

Your friendship I prize, 
And long very much for the day 
You could take a run down 
And visit our town, 
115 



Though you may not have long to stay. 
Those children so sweet, 
I'd like so much to meet, 
Before with old age I am gray, 

For I cannot go there, 

This time of the year, 

As your cold weather I never could bear. 

But my dear wife, your Aunt Kate, 

If I don't make a mistake, 
Will pay you a visit in June, 
When your sister, Miss May, 
Shall return to stay, 

If for her there will only be room. 
The boy, Art, that you knew, 
You'd be surprised how he grew, 
And he now is six feet and more. 

Although when they were there, 
He could but stand by a chair, 
And couldn't do that well alone. 
Our friend Lewie Zimpher, 

That had such a vile temper, 
And never could get o'er the gate, 
He happened to drop, 
To the ground from the top, 
116 



Of a gallery he climbed by mistake. 
As he took too much drink, 
And could not sleep a wink, 
But after that never did wake. 



W. J. DOHERTY. 



THE POETS ARE ALL DEAD 

A living Poet's hard to see — 
The great men all are dead. 

He must live in want and poverty, 
As Homer begged for bread. 

A living Poet of this age, 

We know him not at all. 
And though in truth he is a sage, 

He'll live in fame's great hall. 

The living Poet's not for us, 

He's never seen with eyes; 
Nor do we recognize his worth 

Until the poor man dies. 

In truth the man is not of earth; 

His thoughts are far away, 
And though he tries to pen them up, 

They sometimes go astray. 

117 



HOME AND FIRESIDE 

The moon o'er the hills it was sinking, 
The valley was dark in the gloom, 

The lab'rers had ceased from their toiling, 
The children made mirth in the room. 

A bright little family circle, 

Where parents and children unite, 

And recount all their troubles to mother 

That occur through the day, there, each night. 

There was John; he had something to tell her; 

It brought grief to his young little heart — 
He had lost his first book — his speller, — 

And his sorrow, she should bear her part. 

She spoke to him, kindly, and gently, 

He shouldn't grieve o'er it now, 
His face, if he cried, it would wrinkle, 

She'd get him one better and new. 

There was one whose doll-dress had got torn, 
She got it that morning right new, 

But now for its loss she did mourn, 
As she shed for it tears, not a few. 

There were Maggie, Katie, and Mary, 
They had each something to say — 

They, too, had had joys and worry 

From the time they had risen that day. 

118 



Then there was James, who was ailing ; 

He had the most trouble of all, 
His health was constantly failing — 

As he had been growing so tall ! 

But yet there was likewise another, 

Who cared not for school nor his books, 

He was always the pet of his mother, 
Although not possessed of good looks. 

The home and the fireside are memories 
That distance and time can't efface; 

They shall cling to us still on our journeys, 
Though we quicken or slacken our pace. 



THE CITY 

Where wealth and plenty so much abound, 
And want and poverty so oft are found; 
Where towering structures and mansions grand 
Contrast want and squalor on the other hand. 

Where churches and steeples, with spires that 

reach 
The passing clouds, while the preachers preach ; 
And dens of vice, where the fallen go, 
As they drain their cup, to the dregs, of woe. 

119 



And some whose form with age is bent, 
While they reflect on a life misspent, 
Or feel content, at their work well done, 
They sink in radiance like the setting sun. 

Where the child, whose eyes begin to see 
Such wonders great from his mother's knee ; 
And the youth who comes, to seek renown, 
From a country place or a smaller town. 

And the maiden fair, whose thoughts aspire, 
To the heights of fashion — her sole desire; 
Or the dame who would for title sell 
Her daughter (lends her but to hell). 

Where the miser hoards his golden store, 

And is ever eager to hoard up more ; 

And the crooks whose minds and thoughts they 

turn 
To fleecing the strangers who there sojourn. 

And the ragged children, with wistful eyes, 
Which scan each window for cakes and pies, 
And search each pocket for a coin to buy 
Some dainty morsel for which they sigh. 

And still we find some others who 
Will seek some work they cannot do ; 
And so they walk the streets in vain, 
The mind suffers anguish, and the body pain. 

120 



And the surging crowds that throng the way, 
Seem to live but for that day ; 
And think not of the coming end, 
And their evil ways they will not mend. 

Where the pious spend their lives in prayer, 
And for this world they have no care; 
Where vice and virtue, rich and poor, 
Have all the trouble they can endure. 



ALONE IN THE CROWD 

Solitude in the city ! 

Where the ever busy throng, 
In gaudy, gay procession 

Doth travel all day long. 

Where the ever busy merchant 

Upon gain is ever bent 
And puts forth every effort 

To augment his wealth. 

In solitude, and lonely ! 

Where the surging mass doth sway, 
Who seek for pleasures hourly, 

And hurry on their way. 

Alone upon the ballroom floor! 

Where joy and pleasure reign, 
And gaiety and beauty, 

Glide smoothly in their train, 

121 



There rings out merry laughter 
From many a happy heart, 

While others sit in silence, 
And in it take no part. 

In solitude, and lonely, 

We view the passers-by ; 
And though they may seem so merry, 

They often hide a sigh, 

For many a ringing laughter 
Is but the echoing sound, 

That comes before or after, 
Some sorrow they would drown. 



WANTING, WISHING 

In the distant far away, 

By the green and smiling valley 
Where my thoughts so often stray — 

If but there, I would be happy. 

Always reaching out beyond, 
Looking for a better climate; 

Always reaching out our hand, 
Ever hoping that we'll find it. 

Now the distant fields look green, 
And the mountains are inviting, 

Watered by the rippling stream 
On whose banks 'tis most enticing. 

122 



Ever wishing for the day, 

That we now still call to-morrow; 
And to it our thoughts do stray, 

Though it may hrlng only sorrow. 

For our thoughts are never still, 
We must yet be always wishing; 

Like the ever grinding mill, 

O'er its sides the water swishing. 

Youth is ever wanting, wishing, 
To attain to man's estate, 

And get in the crowd that's rushing, 
Madly rushing, to its fate. 

Man is ever wanting, wishing, 
When he reaches his estate, 

And he has a wife and loving 
Children then to educate. 

He is ever hoping, wishing, 
To help them on their way ; 

And he never ceases troubling 
Lest perhaps they go astray. 

It is said he's longing, wishing, 
After he's grown old and gray , 

That life's winter then upon him, 
Should depart, and it were May. 

123 



Man is ever wanting, wishing, 
Wanting what is just ahead; 

And he ever shall keep longing, 
Until after he is dead. 

And our souls are hoping, wishing 
Till they reach the eternal shore; 

Where the Lord shall give His blessing, 
There to rest forever more. 

In our souls is something wanting, 
Which this world can not supply ; 

For our destiny is heaven, 
And to reach it we must die. 



MOURNFUL THOUGHTS 

Mournful thoughts — they linger 'round me, 

As I pass the crowded street, 
And the gloom of death surrounds me, 

And mix the bitter with the sweet. 

Mournful thoughts — they seem to hover, 

As they linger in our minds, 
And they follow where we wander, 

For they leave no peace behind. 

Mournful thoughts — they are depressing, 
As they rob our peace of mind, 

And they seldom prove a blessing, 
For they always are unkind. 

124 



Mournful thoughts — they take possession, 
And they leave no ray of light, 

And I do not mind confessing, 
They arc darker than the night. 

Mournful thoughts, like gloomy weather, 
Cast their gloom upon the earth, 

And o'er our minds a cloud they gather 
Which soon will undermine our health. 

The gloomy thoughts of a soul that's lost 

What it never can recover — 
Those bitter memories of the past — 

Shall haunt the soul forever. 

Those bitter thoughts of days now past — 
Of what might have been so — 

Now only taunt the spirits lost, 
Which fill their souls with woe. 

While we are in this world of trial, 
We should work out our salvation, 

For it will be but a short while 

When we're through with our probation. 



PAST MEMORIES 

I loved the hills and valleys, 

Where the spruce and hemlocks grow, 
When I rambled through its alleys, 

In the pleasant long ago ; 

125 



There the birds whose merry warblings, 
Filled the air with joyous sounds, 

And the wild flowers look so charming, 
As they covered all the grounds. 

I remember well the primrose, 
As it grew beneath the hedge, 

And the violets ere the sun rose, 
Hung profusely o'er the edge. 

Where the bullfinch and the blackbird, 
And the linnet sang their lays, 

There I now am looking backward 
To those happy by-gone days. 

I now am looking backward, 
To those hills I know so well, 

And the brook with sparkling waters, 
O'er my memory holds a spell. 

I remember well the skylark, 
As he fluttered in the skies, 

He had risen like a rocket, 
Right before our very eyes. 

There he circled in the sunshine, 
Till our vision reached no more, 

Still we heard his cheerful warbling, 
While up higher still he'd soar. 

126 



I remember well the river, 

As it flowed beneath the hill, 

And the anglers from all over, 
On its waters tried their skill. 

I remember well the streamlet, 

Which we passed in going to school, 

And those boys that waded in it, 
In their efforts to keep cool. 

I remember well the teacher, 
In his most austere aspect, 

How he tried to make impressions, 
On the right hand, then the left. 

I remember his big daughter, 

In her most assuming air; 
When she slapped my face I bit her, 

For I told her to take care. 

I remember all the pleasure, 

I remember all the pain, 
And I'll hold them as a treasure, 

For they'll never come again. 



THE CAPTIVE BIRD 

The captive bird that's in a cage, 

And beats his little breast in rage, 
As he tries his troubles to assuage, 
And get his liberty. 
127 



That little bird a prisoner now, 

Would leave that cage if he knew how, 
And cease that making such a row, 
And fly to liberty. 

That little bird, he sees his kind 
Fly by as does the passing wind, 
And leaving him alone behind, 
Trying for liberty. 

The captive bird he vainly tries, 
As in his breast the hopes arise, 
Of winning for himself the prize, 
Of liberty. 

That bird whose wings were made to fly, 

And scan the clouds beneath the sky, 
Alas ! that he must live and die, 
Deprived of liberty. 

For liberty, though but one word, 

'Twould be to that lone captive bird, 
The sweetest that he ever heard, 
His liberty. 

Why keep him in that lonely cage, 

Until he dies of grief or age, 
While he that war incessant wage, 
For liberty? 
128 



Oh ! man, so cruel, how can you bear 
To keep that little prisoner there, 
Have you no love, or don't you care, 
For liberty? 

That bird whose nature it should be, 
To flit around from tree to tree, 
How hard and cruel it must be, 
To lose his liberty. 

The captive bird, alas ! his fate 

Is sealed behind that prison gate. 
Where he has got to stay and wait, 
For death or liberty. 



THE FLAG OF OUR COUNTRY 

The flag of our country, 

We so much admire, 
For whose honor and glory 

We fain would expire; 

We'd give up our lives 
In defense of its name, 

And ever shall honor 
And reverence the same. 

The flag of our country, 
That floats from on high, 

And spreads forth its colors, 
Against the blue sky; 
129 



We seek its protection, 
In no matter which land 

We may happen to be, 
'Tis our own magic wand; 

Its colors are blended, 
In red, white, and blue, 

We lift off our hats, 

As we swear we'll be true; 

We'll be true here at home, 

As well as abroad, 
And ever shall hold it 

In the greatest regard. 

It floats o'er Fort Wrangle, 
Where it rains every day, 

But when planted there once, 
It is certain to stay; 

It shelters those islands, 
All through Bering Sea, 

And unfurls its folds 
O'er the Isle of Hawaii; 

We look for its colors, 
And find them afloat, 

On the Island of Guam, 
Although so remote; 
130 



It is found and respected, 
On the isles of Samoa, 

And protects such a spot, 
Which is known as Ofoo ; 

On the Philippine Isles, 

That we wrested from Spain, 
It encircles that land, 

From Luzon to Palwan. 

And now Porto Rico, 

Which we hold as our own, 
It's more interesting, 

As it's nearer our home. 

As it floats o'er them all, 

And not one or two, 
So we all should be proud 

Of the red, white, and blue. 



THE INNOCENT BABE 

The pretty, innocent little babe, 
That sits upon our knee, 

And over whom we all so rave, 
How happy she must be. 

Her face is radiant with delight, 
Her eyes they sparkle so, 

She is to each home a delight, 
When she first says " no-no-no." 
131 



We like to hear her lisping tongue, 
We watch so she won't fall, 

And we are always on the run, 
Whene'er we hear her calL 

She has such cute and cunning ways, 

No one with her can vie, 
And everyone should sing her praise, 

For seldom does she cry. 

She is the type of innocence, 
Like Adam, when first made, 

And though she has not got his sense, 
He had better like her stayed. 

They are the type of man on earth, 
Before he fell from grace, 

And they are all that now is left, 
To fill that vacant place. 

Their laugh is music to our ear, 
Their voice like angels' call, 

And if they chance to shed a tear, 
We catch them ere thev fall. 

If she were up in heaven above 
We'd find it hard to bear, 

Though in the angels' blessed abode, 
Whom she could not play with here. 

We'll leave her while she's happy now, 
And wait not till she'll grow, 

But still we see her little bow, 
As she says " no-no-no." 
132 



THE NUN 

A child she was of fond affection 
And grace divine shone on her face; 

She was given much to deep reflection, 
And she frequented God's Holy Place. 

Her youth was spent in deep devotion, 
God's choice she had been from the first, 

And she had chose Him as her portion. 
And in His words put all her trust. 

Her graceful youth is quickly vanished, 

As life and time they must move on, 
And earth's delusions all she banished 
When she took the veil to be a Nun. 

She looked not on a life of pleasure, 
Where fashion only reigns supreme, 

And women waste their lives in leisure, 
And each aspires to be the queen. 

No more she wears those glittering jewels, 
Nor do gems sparkle on her hands ; 

She might have graced the fairest mansions 
In this or any other land. 

She wears her clothes both neat and plain, 

Nor cares she now for fashion, 
For all life's vanities she disdained, 

Which are by her forgotten. 
133 



She spends her life in prayer and fasting, 
And ministers to God's sick and poor, 

And seeks those joys that're everlasting, 
For which, privations she'll endure. 

She teaches the young and innocent 

That through life they should beware, 

And tells them how they'd be beset 
With pit-falls everywhere. 

The old, abandoned, out-cast sinner, 
She takes him 'neath her tender care; 

When no one else would give him shelter 
He always finds protection there. 

The bower that's made for her reception 

Is naught but a narrow cell, 
No mirrors hang for her reflection, 

So she her own fair face can tell. 

Only a cross with holy water, 

Shall adorn those bare walls, 
Or may, perhaps, a pious picture, 

That to her mind some truth recalls. 

Or showed some scenes of those who followed 

The straight and narrow path while here, 
They now have joy, though then they 
sorrowed. 
No more they'll grieve or shed a tear. 
134 



And heaven, too, shall be her portion, 
The Lamb she'll follow dressed in white ; 

'Twill be reward for her devotion, 
For God shall be her sole delight. 



HOW LITTLE WE KNOW 

We only mock ourselves 

When we try to write of God, 
And all His great attributes 

Which He has and ever had. 

We know not aught of heaven, 
We know not all of earth, 

We know not when we leave the world, 
And we know not of our birth. 

We know naught of eternity, 

We can't divine the word, 
In all its vast entirety 

Of punishment and reward. 

We can't conceive the meaning 
Of spirits and their power, 

Although they hover around us 
Every day and hour. 

This world to us so mighty, 
To God 'tis but a thought; 

And man who lives upon it 

Was with His divine blood bought. 
135 



He put man here to serve Him, 
And gave him a command, 

But he was not found deserving, 
And was caught when off his guard. 



THE DYING MONK 

The dying monk, whose wasted form, 
Stretched out upon a bed of pain ; 

He lifted up his outstretched arm, 
And blessed himself in God's sweet name. 

He had left his home and family ties 

To serve but God alone; 
And he did the wealth of earth despise, 

As he kept none of his own. 

There stood a stranger at his bed, 

A lad not yet eighteen, 
To help him close his mortal eyes, 

And be edified by the scene. 

The night was dreary, dark and cold, 

As I now remember well; 
And I felt impelled to stay around, 

As if held there by a spell. 

I heard the rattle which meant death, 

The sign that never fails ; 
And though not heard by me before, 

I knew too well its tale. 
186 



There in the lonely hours of night, 

With his body slowly sinking, 
And with eternity in sight, 

His fervor set me thinking. 

I thought how sweet it was to die, 
For those who served the Lord ; 

And glad he was as it grew nigh, 
The time for his reward. 

He tolled his beads, he prayed to God, 
Called on his Blessed Mother; 

And thus he closed his eyes in peace, 
That pious Christian Brother. 

They laid him in a lonely grave, 
As in God his heart was centred; 

And he took none of earth's wealth away, 
As he brought none when he entered. 



cv 



And so we too must pass away, 
And glad we ought to be, 

If only we could go the way, 
And die the same as he. 



THE SONNET ON SPRING 

Come gentle Spring, 

With thy flowers and thy sunshine; 
We have longed for to see you, 

And hear the birds sing. 

137 



Now the Winter is gone, 

And no more by the fire-side 
We linger and wait 

For the joys which you bring. 

The snows of the mountains 

Have melted and vanished, 
Like the vapors of night 

When the day sun appears. 

And the gloom of the Winter 

Is scattered and banished. 
As the brightness and sunshine 

In its place doth appear. 

Come, gentle Spring, and bring the wild roses, 
That nature supplies us this time of the year; 

Come and accelerate the growth which arises, 
All over the world beneath your fond care. 



Fort Worth, Texas, March 11, 1911. 

Mrs. Rosemae Clark, 
Easthampton, Mass. 

My dear niece, Rosemae, 
I got your letter to-day, 
And it took me somewhat by surprise. 



As I did not expect 
That missive to get, 
Although it I dearly do prize. 

138 






I had said I'd desist 
From writing in verse, 
But as you requested it so, 

I would try it this time 

So write you in rhyme, 

But the next time I'd have to say no. 

You had so much to say, 

As is usually your way, 

And you couched it in language so nice, 

That when I read it through, 
As it behooved me to do, 
I read it then over twice. 

The Summer is now here, 

Which we greet with a cheer, 

As we're glad when the Winter is past; 

Now the lawns are all greens, 
Which makes a beautiful scene, 
And we hope we shall have no more frost; 

Your sister, Miss Mae, 
Has not much to say, 
But she thinks it's the hottest she ever 

Encountered in March, 
As she fears she will scorch, 
And if it gets any hotter she'll wilter, 

139 



But we only laugh at her fear, 

The poor little dear, 

And tell her she'll like it the better. 

When she stays here awhile, 

In this beautiful clime, 

And then would not leave till they got her. 

But she won't quite agree, 

Altogether with me, 

And she thinks it's so hot she will burn. 

But, nevertheless, 

When she leaves here we'll miss 

Her and hope that she soon will return. 

Baby, Mary Cecelia Gaudin, 

She is such a darling, 

And life without her would be blank; 

She keeps every one moving, 

As she does but her own choosing, 

And she cuts many a cute little prank. 

She is the pride of my life, 

Myself and my wife, 

And we think there was never another, 

That was half so good, 
For no one else could, 
Unless it was her own dear mother. 

140 



All the family they tend, 

Their best wishes to send, 

To yourself, the dear children, and mother; 

So all I now have to say, 

Is I hope that some day, 

We shall all meet in heaven together. 

Affectionately, 

Your Uncle. 



THE BLESSED RAIN 

Hear the rain, the blessed rain, 
How we welcome it ao-ain: 
It has been so long away, 
We have wished for it each day. 

For the earth was parched and dry, 
And all things beneath the sky 
Longed and wished for its return, 
Lest the plants and grass should burn. 

With the hot and burning sun, 
The rivers all had ceased to run; 
And the lakes all having dried, 
The cattle had but bone and hide. 

Not a spring or stream was found, 
Anywhere above the ground; 
And the crops they all have failed, 
'Tis so long since it has rained. 
141 



Now we hear the gentle rain, 
As it visits us again; 
And its flowing along the gutter, 
Gives us joy we cannot utter. 

How it cools the sultry heat, 
And the atmosphere feels sweet; 
And we breathe fresh air again, 
Since it has begun to rain. 

Now the husbandman feels glad, 
While before they all were sad; 
For no matter how they cried, 
Still the earth it remained dried. 

But now I stop and look around, 
I do not hear its pattering sound ; 
It has not even laid the dust, 
Which almost fills me with disgust. 

As it has rained not half an hour, 
I feel it quite beyond my power 
To write of rain when it should stop, 
For now it does not rain a drop. 



DELAWARE'S MODEL FARM 

I saw the picture in a book, 
Of some Delaware farms fair, 

Which showed a pretty running brook, 
That was so fresh and clear. 
142 



I heard it said the fields were green, 

With hedges neatly kept, 
And how the roads, they looked so clean, 

As if each day they had been swept. 

The hills were leveled down with care, 

The land so neatly tilled, 
And not a noxious weed was there, 

For they had all been killed. 

The fruit trees in the orchard stood 

So even in the rows, 
And from each floral crimson bud 

A sweet perfume arose. 

The house so stately it was built, 
Of brick, or granite walls, 

And all the painter's art was lent, 
To beautify its halls. 

Upon its fields was golden grain, 
Of barley, wheat and maize, 

A picture for to satisfy 

The sedulous farmer's gaze. 

And such as that we're led to believe, 
Should we not doubt that book, 

But oh ! how oft' do they deceive, 
Unless we go and look. 
143 



The roads were narrow, rough, and crooked, 
The weeds grew wild and rank, 

I fail to see their running brook, 
From which the cattle drank. 

The dust lay thick upon the road, 
'Twas naught but clay and sand, 

The house there solitary stood, 
On a barren piece of land. 

I saw no corn set in rows, 

No fruit upon the trees, 
No cattle browsing on the hill, 

No hum of busy bees. 

I saw no husbandman return, 

From thinning out the rows, 
No tenant on the land sojourned, 

And all seemed in repose. 

I saw no hospitable door, 
To shield me from the storm, 

I heard no restless cattle low, 
Upon the model farm. 

The trees had all been broken down, 
The orchards, they were bare, 

The people all had moved to town, 
There was no one left to care. 
144 



I saw no lowing cows return, 

Along the beaten track, 
I saw no milk-maid with an urn, 

The milk to carry back. 

I saw no happy children play 

Upon the grassy lawns, 
No Avonder they object to stay 

On these abandoned farms. 

A loneliness pervades the scene, 

Now all its glory's o'er ; 
Where grace and beauty once was seen, 

They now are seen no more. 



THE BOY AND HIS DOG 

The boy and his dog are both much alike, 
They both are intent on trouble and strife, 
They both are for frolic, they both are for fun, 
They both are eternally on the run. 

They're constant companions ; where one chance 

to be 
The other is found, as they both well agree, 
They both like to hunt, be it rabbit or mouse, 
And they both like to scatter everything in the 

house. 

145 



They both like to worry and chase the poor cat, 
And neither will clean off his feet on the mat; 
The dog knows no better than do as he's told, 
The boy knows no better till he shall get old. 

The boy cannot rest half an hour at his ease, 
The dog is kept busy, scratching the fleas ; 
The dog he will fight for and ever defend 
The boy, for he knows he's his best little friend. 

They both when they're tired will sleep on the 

floor, 
The dog barks and howls and the boy'll weep 

and roar; 
The dog he will howl, and lay in the dirt, 
The boy, when you wash him, will say, oh ! you 

hurt. 

The boy will go hunting, and leave work undone, 
The dog trots along, when the boy has his gun ; 
They both go together, as they share in their 

woes, 
They both have got friends, and they both have 

got foes. 

They both soon will part, as the boy will be 

grown, 
And then the poor dog will be left all alone; 
Alone but not long, as they both will in time 
Be mixed with the dust of the earth or the slime. 

146 



And so must all friends, no matter how dear, 
They must part with each other, as they cannot 

stay here ; 
Like the dog and the boy, their pleasure is brief, 
And so when we part, we must part here in grief. 



THE BROKEN VOW 

She broke the vow she made to me, 
Her heart was hard and cold ; 
I kissed her hand while on my knee, 
As my love to her I told. 

She broke the plight she made to me, 
Which I ever shall remember; 
Tho' from my pledge to her I'm free, 
My heart cords broke asunder. 

Her face in memory still I see, 
That view I cannot hide; 
And though she cares no more for me, 
In thought I am at her side. 

We wander through the shady woods, 
Where wild flowers strew our way ; 
And still I hear her music words, 
As it seems to me she'd say : 
147 



" Look into my eyes, my darling, 
You know I love you best ; 
And though there are some others, 
I care not for the rest." 

I built my airy castles, 

I dreamt of future home; 

I would fight life's fiercest battles, 

Or through the world I'd roam. 

The world could look no brighter, 
'Twas bright both night and day; 
And the air to me seemed lighter, 
As it wafted me away. 

It carried me in fancy 
To bliss I'll never see ; 
For since my cruel Nancy, 
She broke her plight to me. 

The world since looks darker, 

The air it seems more cold; 

And in my heart, there eats a canker, 

For now I'm getting old. 

I often think and wonder, 
If she is happy now ; 
Or if she still remembers, 
The day she broke her vow. 
148 



She broke the vow she made to me, 
It never should be spoken ; 
For though they are so easily made, 
They wreck our lives when broken. 



FOR WHAT THEY WERE INTENDED 

In this wide world we're turned loose 
To seek for wealth and fame ; 

But what's the use to seek for them, 
Without we've muscle or brain? 

For in the strife we've got through life 
We must use our talents given, 

And seek not to divert the course 
Laid out for us in Heaven. 

We know some are intended 
To haul water and saw wood, 

While others of more intellect 
At that would do no good. 

The elephant, whose body, 

So strong, but yet so slow, 
Upon which he can carry 

Ten thousand pounds or so. 

His head is thick and heavy, 

To hold its mighty weight ; 
His neck is short and stubby, 

So he cannot stoop and eat. 
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He therefore has been furnished 
With a proboscis, by which aid 

He can get his food and water, 
For which that trunk was made. 

We find the nimble antelope, 

Who like lightning's flash doth bound, 
And cross a mile of country 

While the elephant turns around. 

His speed would help him little 

If he tried to move the load 
That's placed upon the elephant, 

Though they prod him with a goad. 

Each one should try to follow 

The way his mind is bent, 
Or he'll find out, to his sorrow, 

That his life has been misspent. 



THE WORLD SO OLD, AND YET SO NEW 

This grand old world, so old, yet young, 

And for many centuries past, 
Its praise and glories have been sung, 

And will while time shall last. 

This grand old world although so old, 

'Tis young to some each day, 
For each short moment some one is born, 

And some must pass away. 
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Each day so many see the light, 

That never did before, 
And to them first 'tis young and bright, 

As it was to those of yore. 

The sun is bright, the moon is new, 

Although it may be full, 
And taken from their point of view, 

Seems as though the world began. 

The world is new when seen by youth, 
And in truth 'tis new to them, 

But when they've passed by the old route, 
'Tis still the same old thing. 

The world's once bright and new to all, 
But when we learn to know it, 

We find it is not new at all, 

As so many have been through it. 

The world's yet young, 'tis us that's old, 

And, as time quickly flies, 
We know too well, without being told, 

As we see with other eyes. 

The infant child it is amused, 

And pleased with but a rattle, 
But after that is a while used, 

The toy is soon forgotten. 
151 



But as they grow they cast aside, 
Those trinkets of a child, 

And look around for other sports, 
Which would amuse the mind. 

And thus it is when we have used, 
This world with all its joys, 

We often find when we are old, 
We've acted most unwise. 



THE CLOUDS O'ER OUR LIFE 

The clouds o'er my life are gathering, 
They are thick as the sky before rain, 

And I see in their fringe no white lining, 
For sadness is akin unto pain. 

The days of my life they look shorter, 

And so 'tis the case with us all, 
And the nights of our life they seem darker, 

They are not like they were when we're small. 

The birds do not sing now as sweetly, 
The fields are not green as they were, 

But still now we act more discreetly, 
And such is the case Fll aver. 

Why should we think now of the morrow? 

Or why should we dwell on the past ? 
When we think of the first we but borrow, 

In the other our chances are lost. 

152 



So then what's the use of repining, 

Nor look at the clouds in their gloom, 

'Twill but hasten the time of our dying, 
We'll be dead long enough in the tomb. 

Our lives they are much as we make them, 
We may suffer with heat or with cold, 

And no matter which way we may take them, 
We'll find dross mixed in bullion of gold. 

In our hearts there is always a yearning, 
We had better assuage our desire, 

And though youth in itself is most charming, 
To dissemble they most all do aspire. 



BUT A DREAM 

The dream, that most delusive ray, 

That visits us when sleeping ; 
And often leads our minds astray, 

And from laughter sets us weeping. 

That vain deceiver of the night 

That comes in divers forms ; 
And makes the darkest clouds look bright, 

And quells the greatest storms. 

It seems to go about by stealth, 

To visit king and cabin ; 
And lends unto the poor great wealth, 

And does it without robbing. 

153 



The beggar on the streets to-day, 
Who needs a meal of victuals ; 

And knows not where his head shall lay, 
To-nicrht abounds in riches. 



n 



He'll sit at gorgeous banquets gay, 
With viands both rare and luscious; 

And hear the host and hostess say, 
We're glad you are here with us. 

He eats till he can eat no more, 
And then his head gets dizzy ; 

He wakes to find he's on the floor, 
And has not got a penny. 

The soldier on the eve of battle, 

That fights for country and for home; 

And ere he hears the muskets rattle, 
He'd like to make one visit home. 

He stands upon the field awaiting, 
To hear the call to deadly strife; 

And drops to sleep while there debating, 
He dreams of sweetheart or of wife. 

He leads the charge there in the battle, 
He wades in blood up to his knees ; 

And though they hear the bullets rattle, 
They drive the foe back by degrees. 

154 



He's marching home a conqueror now, 
He hears his praise in every mouth ; 

He wears a banner on his brow, 

And hears the joyful populace shout. 

He looks and sees his sweetheart smiling, 
A cross for bravery is on his breast ; 

And he shall be her captive willing, 
For he has done his level best. 

He sees his mild and gray-haired mother, 
She praises him for deeds he's done; 

And kisses him till he thinks he'll smother, 
While he stands sleeping on his gun. 

He hears the solemn bugle sounding, 
As they march on in triumph proud ; 

But alas, it was the cannon booming, 

As it shook the vale and hills all round. 

He awoke and had to face the battle, 
As it rained both shot and shell; 

And they were slaughtered there like cattle 
The tale let others tell. 

The prisoner whose sentence 

Hangs heavy o'er his head, 
As he lay upon his prison cot 

Which answers for a bed. 

155 



He dreams of happy childhood, 
He's at his mother's knee, 

He lays his head upon her cheek, 
The way it used to be. 

He feels her smooth caresses, 

As she kissed his youthful brow; 

And she gives her boy a blessing, 
He sees it all just now. 

He hears of pardons granted, 
Being granted in his case 

Although he heard the sentence, 
Which was to end his race. 

He heard the joyful greetings, 
Of friends not seen for years ; 

And of those happy meetings, 
Which to his eyes brought tears. 

He heard the church bell tolling, 
The sound he knew so well ; 

But then off his cot came rolling, 
Still in a felon's cell. 

It was a rude awakening, 

After so sweet a dream; 
Which to his heart was sickening 

When he found it was not real. 

156 



The youth whose heart was sorrowing, 
For he loved a maiden fair, 

And he spent his time repining, 
As for him she did not care. 

He dreamed a pleasant vision, 
She came to him and said: 

" I have come to the decision, 
You're the only one I'll wed." 

He kissed her lovely forehead, 
As he held her hand so fair, 

And from his hated rival, 
He had no more to fear. 

She talked to him so sweetly, 
Such joy it couldn't last; 

So he sprang up in an ecstasy, 
To find the dream had passed. 

The miser knows no pleasure, 

His greed is all for gold; 
As it is his only treasure, 

Although he's weak and old. 

He had a midnight vision, 

In truth it was a dream — 
He found a hidden treasure, 

That no one else had seen. 

157 



He saw so much real money 
There scattered everywhere, 

It seemed to him so funny, 

He thought that heaven was there. 

He tried to shout in wonder, 

At such a pleasant sight, 
But he broke the spell asunder, 

And he slept no more that night. 

Thus through this world we wander, 
We find life like a dream, 

So we had better stop and ponder, 
Before it gets too real. 



RICH AND POOR 

This life is a world of pleasure, 
But oft we must travel in pain, 

Some people here live at their leisure, 
While some find life hard to sustain. 

The gay and rich live in splendor, 
Their life is one whirl of bliss, 

While the poor they behold them in wonder, 
And think of the pleasure they miss. 

Those rich ones who here seem the gayest, 
And dress in the styles suits their taste, 

And eat of those viands that are rarest, 
And care not how much they shall waste. 
158 



For such ones, they think that this world 
Was made but to please their desire, 

So they think they should never be troubled, 
And of their conduct no one should inquire. 

The man who is poor and has to work, 

To sustain his life, and then 
Must bear reproach and stand rebuke, 

For every trifling thing, 

He thinks his fate is hard to bear, 

And wonders why 'tis so, 
And sometimes thinks he does not care, 

Whether he lives here or no. 

He forgets for a while he's an actor, 
And playing but the part he received, 

And he in no sense here is a martyr, 

For of those troubles he'll soon be relieved. 

This stage on which we are but acting, 
And trying to make life so content, 

But from here we must soon be departing, 
As life was not given but lent. 

'Tis lent to us here, as is riches, 

For neither are carried away, 
When the rich and the poor are in ashes, 

Or mixed with the dust in the clay. 
159 



Ere they're dead long, no one can discern, 
Which one was the poor and the rich, 

They will all look the same to the worm, 
When they lay in the deep little ditch. 



POOR AND OLD 

It is hard to be poor, and 'tis hard to be old, 
But it's worse to be both put together ; 

For when we are poor, but still we have youth, 
We can get along some way or other. 

For age is declining, like iron with rust, 
And has not the power of resistance; 

While youth it is buoyant, and shakes off the 
dust, 
And has in itself more persistence. 

The man that is old, decrepit, and poor, 
He's both ugly in face and in form; 

Then his presence and company no one can 
endure, 
Although he may do them no harm. 

He's no longer of interest to those whom he 
meets, 
Once his jokes they brought laughter and 
flavor ; 
Now he walks all alone by himself on the streets, 
And no one will grant him a favor. 

160 



But still he must live, as he cannot well die, 
And so he must work for that livinc; 

And though he may look for work with a sigh, 
He can earn scarcely a shilling. 

Some look at him kindly, but say, " You're too 
old, 

There is no kind of work you can do " ; 
And though he has been the same often told, 

He alas! knows the saying is but true. 

We know not why fate should treat him so hard, 
And why the young and the rich should 
despise him ; 

He is now at the age he should have his reward, 
But instead of that, no one will hire him. 

It may be he squandered his money and youth, 
And now 'tis but just retribution; 

And so it is, and should be forsooth, 
That suffering and want be his portion. 

For the sins of our youth, we must suffer in age, 
And some day it may come to our time ; 

So we had better beware, if we be a sage, 
For to squander our youth is a crime. 



161 



TIME 

Oh, time, how brief a thing thou art, 
From which all earthly things must part ; 
No matter how long thou may seem, 
Thou art only like a passing dream. 

A flash, that through the heavens flies, 
A moment's laugh or then a sigh, 
A brief remembrance of the past, 
A glance into the future vast. 

And though we know that time is brief, 
And steals upon us like a thief, 
We had it, but 'tis gone away, 
As hours, they go to make a day. 

What matters to us those few years, 
Which we may spend in joy or tears, 
'Tis like a vision of the night 
That vanishes with the daylight. 

The child that's born new to-day, 
And spends a few short hours in play, 
It is but as the butterfly 
That flutters in the sun to die. 

When looking through the sun's bright rays, 
We see dust atoms fly both ways ; 
They move so fast we cannot see, 
So doth our lives that quickly flee. 

162 



Oh, time, that mite that God picked up 
And cast it in the mighty lap 
Of endless space, eternity, 
There to be lost, eternally. 



ETERNITY 

Eternity, that awful word, 
For those who wrath of God incurred, 
And who their lives have spent in sin 
For them it is an awful thing. 

Eternity, the thought that sent 
Men to the desert where they spent 
Their lives in fasting and in prayer, 
So for eternity they could prepare. 

Eternity, that did inspire 
God's martyred saints to dare the fire, 
Or torturing racks, so they could be 
With God for all eternity. 

Eternity, we can't divine, 
How greater much it is than time, 
For eternity will still roll on 
When time it is forever gone. 

There are no thoughts that we can fit, 
Or words that are found adequate, 
Nor light that casts a single ray 
On that long distant, far away. 

163 



For time is like a drop of dew, 
That to some mighty ocean flew, 
And lost its own identity, 
When wrapped up in eternity. 

Eternity, it racks the brain, 
When trying its meaning to explain, 
And try to think how it can be, 
That has no end, eternity. 

Eternity, if we would think 
How long it is, more would repent ; 
Repent before it is too late, 
For soon we'll pass through Time's 
great gate. 

And then we'll be upon the brink, 
That word I cannot bear to think, 
Nor no one else, no more than I, 
Can ponder long lest they should die. 

The fires of hell, we're told are hot, 
And souls in there will burn not; 
But still before their eyes they see 
What has no end, eternity. 

Oh Lord, our God, how can it be, 
Thou art but one, and yet are three, 
No one can fathom such things divine 
Or measure Eternity-with-time. 

164 



BLESSED BE OUR GOD 

Blessed be our God, 

Who dwells above the sky 

And fills the earth 

With joy and mirth, 

And is the author of our birth, 

For He shall never die. 

And blessed be His praise, 

Which shall be sung 

By old and young 

Without whose will 

Nothing is done, 

For all power with Him lays. 

And blessed be His power, 

Which none shall take, 

But for our sake 

He did the joys of heaven forsake, 

And did His Divine self incase 

In a body like to ours. 

And blessed be His Name, 
To which all heads should bow, 
No matter who, 

For to that Name all honor's due 
And all on earth and heaven too, 
Shall reverence the same. 
105 



And blessed be His will, 

Which shall be done 

When time is gone, 

And sea and earth shall all be one; 

And time shall then no more go on 

For He shall hold it still. 

And blessed be His reign, 

Which shall extend 

Without an end, 

For to His will 

All things must bend, 

And ever must remain. 



A PRAYER 

"I believe, Oh, Lord help my unbelief," 
And do Thou come to my relief; 
When e'er I call upon Thy Name 
Let not that call be made in vain ; 

Hear thou my sigh and grant my prayer, 
And take me 'neath Thy loving Care ; 
Oh, Lord our God, Thou Who didst deign 
To come on earth and suffer pain. 

And put Thyself here in our place, 
So we could be restored to grace; 
Remember not my sins of old, 
When my heart was hard and my faith was cold, 

166 



And my thoughts were far away from Thee; 
Then my eyes were blind and I could not see, 
Blot out my sins Oh, Lord I pray, 
And watch me so I do not stray 

From the straight path which Thou hast made, 
To keep which I must have Thy aid, 
For no one can from sin be free 
Unless they humbly call on Thee. 

Oh, Lord, when I am old and bent, 
And all my days on earth are spent, 
And Thou shalt call my soul to Thee, 
I pray Thee God, be good to me. 



167 



MAR 14 1912 



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